I take look at what I see.
Outer skin pealing.
I change the frame.
Glass glistening, things will find optimism soon.
Brightly lit houses with nicely furnished rooms .
I lay there.
He stays there.
Watching me watching him.
If it was ever so simple to stay here.
Gazing out the window, I see disease, destruction, and misfortune.
To be a statistic would be easy, to fall down and just take it would be predictable.
What’s more contradicting is the fact that I like what I’m not receiving.
I endure joy out of what I am foreseeing.
Because it’ll never come.
He can never be, and it’ll never enable a ‘we’.
I’m dead inside.
Decay welcomes me back.
Follows me back.
Turns it’s back.
© Copyright 2016 Kathleen Megquier. All rights reserved.