we didn't worry about
the delicate exchange of ideas anymore.
we either told it like it was
or didn't speak to each other at all.

intricate was the wordsmith's
attention to cutting detail.
he held a single photograph in his hand
to recount all of the events that would unfold.

i etched the details in my mind
and looped them around
some shitty chorus
of an overplayed love song.

and from the filters between
my ears and my brain,
i stole all the beauty and
discarded the parts that would damage me.

my imagination is not capable
of dealing with the pain
inflicted by man.

i sleep and hope to wake up to something new.

and realize that this passivity
will not save me
this time.

his roommate's alarm beeps at 630am,
the transition from a blackout dream
quickly turns blue with the sunlight
peaking through the venetian blinds.

he rolls out of bed,
a crumbled cigarette in his pocket
leaves a trail of tabacco from his bed
to the floor where his black running shoes await.

he sets the coffee maker
while smoking a joint
and gets his minute of facebook.

mia blasts as he slows down from his run
the old chinese lady in a green jacket
speedwalks from around the corner.

he comes home.
cooks his eggs.
and listens to Naked Kids
for the first time.

with coffee in hand
we writes about
the mundane details of his saturday morning.