It drips rain through the ceiling tiles,
on even the brightest days.
And the boredom is heavy and consuming
and deep
and like a fly at the bottom
of a cup of wine
I end up consumed by all this,
and happy in my peaceful death.
The price of hope it would seem
has risen from my grasp,
but the price of dreaming
sits at the edge of the bed
with the blankets and the dogs
and the smell of cold air.
And I like these bare
wooden floors
and I like my dog
and I’d like to see what happens
tomorrow afternoon;
And I’d like to keep missing you
and I would hate for anyone to have to miss me.
So I think I will stay.
And just like when you said
I wouldn’t be worth a damn
I keep proving you wrong
little by little at a time.
Even if it is only by
fighting off the urge to
kill myself every night,
only to kick my own ass
the next morning.
But the afternoons are usually nice
and god knows nice has to be
better than dead.