Snowflakes

I feel composed of dullness. Shades of grey in blank and uninteresting faces.

My toes are cold and falling off and the snow falls silently outside.

Tomorrow morning.

That's what I'll say and that's what I'll do.

Until the last night when I don't.

House Plants

I guess I haven't had much to say to you as of late. No excuses, I've been passing over our nightly chats. Neglecting our relationship.

Maybe I feel like there's nothing left for me to say and that you know all my secrets now. Even if something new happens, it seems that I react in similar ways:

Substance abuse.

Oversleeping.

Self-deception.

Soft cries for help that I'm afraid someone else will hear.

Maybe that's why I spread myself so thin. So no where will I find myself too concentrated as to plunge in. Where and what does it mean to be in, anyway?

I don't know. I'm sorry I haven't been there. Well, I'm always there, you know that. In the room, but just as a projection. Not reaching out, but flat against the wall and cringing when anything comes too close.

I can still water you. But. I know you deserve more and I'm sorry that I don't know how to provide that.

So.

I'm going to go now.