pictures

You looked happy last I saw you
And if I see you again
We can pretend that my cheery facade
Isn’t off-putting.
Yesterday I met someone
Whose intestine was in his arm,
Somehow.
How we would have talked about that peculiarity
for hours, the conversation undoubtedly evolving into an argument.
I like to imagine you loved to verbally spar with me much as I did you,
And that at times you put on those rose-tinted glasses over your correctional lenses,
And think of me as I do you.
But such childish dreams are best stored somewhere just out of reach,
In the same compartment as thoughts of hopelessness,
Where they will grow old and stale,
Losing their flavor and becoming fit to be discarded.
I suppose in some minds the process takes longer than in others.