rituals

the ever returning patterns
all the small untouched corners of our daily doings

always marching up front
as to not miss the plane
that we were three hours early for

running for busses
we were sure we would miss by this morning
but vouched not to be late for
by the end of last night

the pills on the counter
looking at me
wondering if we took them already
repetitive questionary of the mind
each time more unanswered

crowded rooms spaces vehicles
every one seemingly trying to get
somewhere

wherever somewhere may be

full moons
and messages
from your wired brain

trying to tie together
our shared days
unravelling
like a rope falling apart
on both ends

hidden messages
for saying it out loud makes it all tangible
and then freaky
terrifying even
to an untrained eye

all the goodbyes
stacked up
and all the before full
of anticipation for the new
the shiny the untouched

but when you’re older everything seems touched
christmases returning
just with less plates set at the table
where we used to be separated into
tiny humans and adults

something to aspire to
something to become there
in the aging of the patterns

-D.