He walks up to me, grinning cautiously,
every footstep a careful measurement, tapping gently on the floor,
the posters on the wall seem more fragile every day,
and the words on them, I watch him tear off each letter and swallow it,
he wanted his own subtlety, the independence, his careful shoelace,
tattering with every step he grinds into the cement,
tearing at every seam,
every thread shattered windows and scratches against my skin,
and he mutters almost inaudibly,
"Can I have another juice?"
I look down and smile at him,
"No, you brat."
I tore myself from supposition weeks before,
the flashes of the sunlight against the lens, and the glare,
he rattles them, each shake so carefully calculated,
"Ha ha!" he shouts,
the separation, he reminded himself that it was so clever,
every solution he had given, the tear of his knees against the ground,
they all seemed so simple,
he screamed every time they told him otherwise,
and to plunge into their defeat seemed to be such an unreasonable task.
He shouts again,
and my fingers, sore again from the transition's calls,
they felt so delicate then,
every touch was the bright light through the canvas,
every night's reminder of the sun he has torn from the sky,
the careful epic he builds,
I would recover from his laughs,
the music tearing past the fabric,
every day it was a little simpler,
but the abrasion was static,
and my push against the leaves scattered around the cars,
it always seemed like they weren't interested.
I'm still shaking off the morning's numbness,
the subtle tones vibrating every night through my window,
so when you listen as I speak,
when the excitement has flown past,
and when you have sat still the entire time,
your caution resonating each word of my thought,
you still won't get any juice, you brat. |
