version of the truth

the truth is…

my dream was a thing

of mirrors and smoke.

no…

maybe you were disillusioned;

was it all just a lie?

Were you

just a lie?

grasping at straws and

settling on the words to

express the concept

I find I’m covered

in little more

than cotton and

clichés.

Every word…every sentence

you pour into my brain

through the funnel in

my ear

has me second guessing and

wondering

and …

there are snail tracks on your face.

Maybe it isn’t such a good thing

to occupy oneself with things

that have happened

and are over

and are done with

but here we sit.

The same feelings, the same questions

and words, words…

it’s all about the words and

the meanings and

what you said or didn’t mean

or meant to say

or should have said

and how I saw it and

see it

and what I just can’t see.

common experience,

very

very

very

different

thoughts, ideas,

perceptions…

you might as well be speaking Creole.

The only thing,

the one thing I know

for sure is

the truth is

unraveling

like a fucking origami.