There are these awkward turns of the page,
that mark our hands with paper cut reminders,
that this almost did not exist at all,
that in more ways than we care to admit,
we had moved on with this thing we coin a life,
with new characters,
and episode titles.

The lead roles may be played by different actors,
though I think we all try to play,
that nothing across the screen has changed.

That we have not changed.

It all seemed to fall into place,
making perfect sense to the untrained eye,
but up close,
the door is hanging loose from the hinges.

The pieces they warp and peel from the corners,
as I empty out all the jars of paste,
but all that sticks together,
are strands of my hair,
and notes to a song I forgot the lyrics to.

At a distance I guess I have it all,
but there are these vacant gaping holes,
only filled up with my fire spat words,
that tear at the widening air between us.

I keep trying to crack open the surface,
wide enough for the whole world to see,
all of this decay.

Perhaps I just want to wound you,
to see if you will stand up and fight,
or flee and run away from me.

At the start I had wanted this,
to be our Before Sunrise,
but our script was ill-conceived,
the production rushed.

What do you see when you look closely at us?
Do you notice the bullet hole signs of our pending goodbyes?