His & Her Whirlpool
Happiness becomes artificial.
Gets sucked up in the vacuum.
But at least it feels
You get too wicked a kick,
and you don’t get back up.
But at least you raced.
You didn’t leave without a taste.
You were no help, not, at least just.
You spent your life clogging up a drain,
filling the disposal unit.
But it is not considered a waste.
It is your individual contribution.
The drain is cleaned out and the new tenant will
have about as much consideration
as the last.
You didn’t expect anything from anyone, and that is virtue now,
That is the spectacle that gets misled into canon, that and
a someone-on-a-someone-else- mindful-mold-like-television.
That, and you. The one who waves to me in the carnival.
We never spoke and yet,
You were the closest I came to it.
So what does that say about words,
And their effect in love?
Nothing below. Nothing above,
But the sprinkle of ashen star,
A charcoal tear down the Mona Lisa smile.
The end of the Death Cab album.
The ticket stubs.
The empty pack that had the rest in it.
Your happiness becomes something you can lose.
Your loss is never so tangible, as when you recall having had it.