We are a crooked spinal cord,
unfixable scoliosis ,
intertwining our vertebrae,
broken back bone,
solid case of we just don’t keep each other upright anymore.
We are an accordion,
swiftly dividing and reconnecting.
The sounds of harmonicas, claps,
and the flicks of lighters
whistle at our performance of dysfunction-
Always parting as soon as we meet,
never meeting long enough to just be,
sort out things or carry on
because in a split second we are always gone.
Come back to me,
stay for a while and sing,
listen to the harp players finger pads strum amazingly.
You are a meteorite,
falling into my orbit,
puncturing the lung of my atmosphere.
You are a candles wick that is too short,
extinguishing my flame with your loss of words.
Silence and darkness,
harsh and bitter,
not willing to take the chance and just let be burn bright,
fill up the room with my light.
You let me die.
I am a crochet needle,
bending the yarn of you,
weaving together your threads
to make you something that you’re not.
Maybe you were meant to change,
and I was meant to stay the same,
but our coping skills don’t cooperate,
and we put too much water in the flask,
diluting the chemicals.
There was no reaction.
We are a dance without a song,
out of place humming,
creatures that are becoming nothing.
We are a broken mood ring,
chipped car paint,
two humans that just aren’t programmed to be together.
Maybe if crochet needles could light the wick of a candle,
or maybe if we didn’t step on each other’s toes when we danced,
or maybe if we calculated our chemistry correctly,
we could start a reaction.
And maybe I’m just making up excuses,
trying to find reasoning behind the puzzles pieces not fitting,
trying to discover something that will never be there.
But I have come to find that short wicks and crochet needles don’t ignite a flame.