it was all just a silly game anyway, a game of not trying too hard,
and getting by on sleepless nights just to pretend to be with you.
long drives, khaki pants, and stupid sunglasses that color you ridiculous,
shattered lighthouses crumbling with the pain of this presence
healed with grand exeunt of a startling new memory that never occurred.
never happened.
never saw body.
never saw lips.
never felt searing pain of knowing hands on knowing flesh.
never would have pictured us drifting together to drift apart,
a little rendezvous never harmed the luckless innocent.
now it unspirals into less of a present and more of a past,
each day wanting less and less of what followed on lonely winter nights.
think of nothing but communion and graying hymns to clense this soul,
a little game of pretend.