this long transformation of thought
consists of a lot of silence.
my baby brother made me proud
when a certain action matched
a certain promise.

this space between us,
spoken to drunken ears,
rested on facts tainted
by useless emotions.

pleasure meant running away
from any further development.

we made a case out
of clay from fragmented antiques.
its worth shattering
at the acquisition of disillusionment.

so to deal
we killed zombies
over greasy pizza and cold whiskey.

"um... i think the dog ran away...