And now the power has gone out and we can't find any of the exits and were wandering around in the dark in this room called love.
So what do we do?
What now?
The more we understood the less we could see till the morning we woke up to a setting sun, your side of the bed was still warm while mine had never heated up. Every now and again... and again we down the drink and up the bubbles and we think we can see again, but our sight fades into realization that what we are seeing is a figment of their imagination and has nothing to do with us.
To empty faces dancing their dance and waiting for us to fill them but we wont. We can't. We know better... or so we think... but if we can't trust what we think than what whiteness does our trust in them come from?
By now we have stopped searching for exits and have found only each-other and after several excellent decisions we can see like we own the sun and have no need to run... and no need of clothes for that matter.
And their searching to tell us how we've done it wrong but they can't see us in dark. And we keep our heads low so as not to be heard, and two become one and create a small bird.
And the bird will grow down into it's nest until it realizes it has been hanging onto a metaphor. A metaphorical question before a hypothetical answer to the why and reason that season after season we've yet to hit a spring and are still hanging onto what's been.
