Moving

We do laugh. Thick eyes painting the glass. On those broken windows. We listen as if we know how to care about anyone else. Maybe we want to, but can't remember.

Dreams struck by the fist of the alarm. Sleep is over. And we have to see again.

Pick up the chisel and drill at the slab. Dig out the shapes it keeps from us. Why do we ever sleep when we could be spending that time listening to each other breathing. Remembering how the needles shallowed my skin. Until every river I had drowned in was empty.

It always mattered too much.

Writing eulogies for every thought. Children finding the first traces of frailty in their parents. Widows at the edge of the grave.

We do have our moments. To be content. With what we are. With ramshackle lovers on slopes too steeps. With bargains made after the act.

In soft pillows of clay. The weight of our hearts makes its impact.

We do laugh.

At everything. Especially when the crying won't do.