as i ramble aimlessly to no one.
this charade has gone past the breaking point,
i tell myself with an air of dubiety,
trying to convince myself of the opposite
but failing miserably at both
at the same miserable time.
maybe he doesn't, maybe he does
has become a sour mind game
with no clear conclusion or consequence.
maybe he will, i plead with my heart,
knocking halfheartedly on its fragile doors
and knowing it's on the brink of wholly shattering,
leaving me to pick up the pieces
to this glorified mismatch made in haste.
maybe he won't, i advise the realist soul;
we know he's been broken before
and we know he's not been
as diligent as perhaps he should --
and yet his imperfections matter little
when his charms unravel.
the game, the game, it weakens; it unhinges me
from all it made me see
down the street from rationality.
typical or true?
the past makes me wonder
if the present is what he needs
or if it's a consolation to his quest for stability.
the light flickers and so does the clock;
too many nights for him
are probably a good indication
of all he is not.
in too deep now, i wonder, clinging to what i am,
where from here?
such incessant wonderings
keep me awake even more nights.