We spent the Summer making a list of excuses and smoking ourselves deep into debt. Every pill swallowed was bringing us closer to something, or so we thought. Each knock at the door shocked us awake and made us hold our breath until the visitor had given in. We traded our furnishings piece by piece for small amounts of whatever we could barter for.
By Autumn, we had both lost our spirit of adventure. School was starting soon, and we were out of furniture to barter away. We took more walks, memorizing the river and the lesser-known landmarks. I don't think either of us ever expected to come back again. Down at the old abandoned paper mill, we smoked our last joint in Ypsilanti and talked about all the great things we had to look forward to. As you plotted our next big adventure, I thought back to Iowa and for the first time, I kicked myself for having ever returned for you.
A few weeks later you were gone, and I began answering the knocks at the door again. Every pill I swallowed was carrying me further away from something, or so I thought. I kept secrets instead of making excuses, and began my own adventure further into myself.
It'll break again, because people are careless. The issue isn't really in the damage, it's in the repairs. For so long, I've just been sweeping the pieces under the rug, expecting them to disappear on their own. I figured it was easier than gathering them and gluing them all back together again. But now, all that I've managed to accomplish is the wanton destruction of a perfectly good rug.
No comments:
Post a Comment