Waiting on the Elevator

In my broken coup I saw the flag on the floor. Moments abbreviated in color. I know that you meant what you said, but that doesn't make it real.

Driving from the backseat. Listening with my eyes. I can't see where I'm going, but I like the sound the blindness scraping in my head. I like remembering how so much more than being there when.

Because it's never real. You only try to say it is. With words as ripe as dandelions. Sighs blinking out in the wind.

I still see where the shadows wait for us to make them again. In the soft folds of the paint as it laughs across these walls. So much more eager than I am to remember the poses we've discarded.

Every portrait unfinished. Hard brushes sealed in paint. There are more than enough canvases.

But only so many colors I can trust.

I know you meant it to be true. And I wish it was.

Going down isn't so bad.