we’ve reached a new level
of ourselves, almost as if we’ve grown an
extra inch to reach the last, missing piece.
Look at that backseat mirror and see you
that begged for mercy, for freedom, for the love
you didn’t deserve,
that forgotten feeling of him
being blurry to your little heart, when
she was the goddess, being lucid in your dreams.
Smoke some, shot some, sex some,
that was the motto, a saying of those that
couldn’t care less about breathing,
alongside baby steps, confused baby steps,
which were mistaken for big shoes, a fact
only tomorrow can show you.
And now that story ends, leaving me
overflowing with overdue words, like trickling
water itching to rush out of the container.