Numbering the Thirst

The silence spit like a shotgun. Spraying tiny bullets everywhere. I looked at the floor and began to imagine the footsteps that had crossed it. Over all the years we'd been going in and out of each other's lives.

Yea, I know, just what's wrong with me. But I don't know how to fix it.

Life landed on my nose. A nervous butterfly fretting over the ramifications in its sneeze. How years from now it might make me. Us. Everything.

Different.

Pushing through the turnstyles tthat stab at our groins. As we hurry to catch the train that goes with the ticket in our hands. Don't know where. But I'd like to go just the same.

If it'll take me.

Even just half the way.

So that I could look back on the path it's traversed. And find in the distance what I never saw while I was there.

In costumes every day. One night. Just one night to be ourselves.

Counting the hours. Numbering the thirst. As it consumes.