I folded a church pamphlet into a fortune teller today.

Doors open and close
Their wooden facades chipping,
little brown snowflakes
floating to the ground.
The sun is setting,
golds and oranges
slowly melting into the horizon.
She is sitting in the kitchen
watching all this,
You walking through the door at sunset.
She wonders where you've been.
Before she knew you,
when you were a child climbing branches,
when you reached the top of the oak tree and thought
you were on top of the world.
You sit down next to her,
touching the tip of her knee.
The golds and oranges are gone outside.
Now, there is green streaking the sky,
an ethereal moss of the heavens.
You both sit there,
staring out the window,
the door wide open,
waiting for the sun to set.

I feel like a lot of people see me as
something sitting in the window to buy.
A pretty face with a pleasant personality.
Only touchable until their fingers touch the glass.

Let's be something substantial.
Something that stands on its own,
Solid, Strong, and Unshakable.
When the wind blows let's laugh in its face.
It will never know us, the way we know us anyways.

He said, we could be fantastic, swell, merry.
I look at him like a deadbeat scenario.
Out one ear and flung through the window.

Driving downtown.
Blast of the radio ringing in my head.
Cigarette smoldering to a bloody red.
Mind is buzzing like there is no end.
Pedal keeps pushing til we're all dead.

You have a habit of turning around, changing your mind.
Like I do, like a spin top cherry that doesn't touch the ground.
You send me angry messages when you're lost in your own drunkeness,
wanting me to find you, to save you.
How can I do that, when I can't even save myself?
We were a mish-mash pile of anger and discontent.
Yet, madly in love.
At this age, nothing lasts because everyone's too volatile for their own making.
Unless, of course, you were raised in a happy home.
And maybe that's why we loved so much, because neither of us were.

Ideally, I would like to be everything at once.
The sweat on the tips of your fingers
When the bullet bites close.
The girl nimbly pouring coffee on the corner of a noisy city.
The air on a cold morning when the sky is pale and cruel.
The slowly smoldering cigarette held between wet lips.
The first kiss between two strangers in a dark dingy corner.
And this, I would like to be ____.

Is it fair to say I'm a wrecking ball?
Waiting for the weight to fall.