It's a still life water color,
of a now late afternoon,
as the sun shines through the curtained lace
and shadows wash the room.
and we sit and drink our coffee
couched in our indifference,
like shells upon the shore
you can hear the ocean roar
in the dangling conversation
and the superficial sighs,
the borders of our lives.
And you read your emily dickinson,
and i my robert frost,
and we note our place with bookmarkers
that measure what we've lost.
like a poem poorly written
we are verses out of rhythm,
couplets out of rhyme,
in syncopated time
and the dangling conversation
and the superficial sighs
are the borders of our lives.
Yes we speak of things that matter,
with words that must be said,
"can analysis be worthwhile?"
"is the theater really dead?"
and how the room is softly faded
and i only kiss your shadow,
i cannot feel your hand,
you're a stranger now unto me
lost in the dangling conversation
and the superficial sighs
in the borders of our lives.