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we just get up and move over

tables don’t turn,
we just get up and move over
or play those chairs like
harmonies hummed but not remembered,
so we can remake our own song,
that one we know we knew but
can’t find the hook for.
we move and our settings don’t,
so we get restless and selfish and
think the short sentences can’t
hurt each other that much, until we
find eyes swole, chests still, and
the air leaves so it’s just us,
living with what we say and what we mean
and the difference in-between.
sometimes you wake up, rush out the house
and look back to see all you’ve left
unhelped, unchanged– but you said, “love you!”
and she replied the same, though you
know those words are formal now,
the way any repetition becomes less
competition and more a breathless, huddled-over
mess while you watch someone else, or no one, win.

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musings & scribbles