Sitting on a couch

It is strange sitting in the dark, listening to the same voices repeat themselves, the same sing song notes that claim they know me, as they poke and prod into the unconscious world of make believe, the millions of people who make up every civilization, the words we are all broken by, and the words of games that re-create the unbelievable patterns of day to day life, the winners and the losers, the lovers and the seekers. It is odd how we play around with the night, painting stars with our finger tips, love with our hopes and dreams, claiming to know one another by the impressions left inside of half told stories of our past. It is odd to swing from the trees that had grown up generations ago, the familiar bark that crumples when touched, the white skin underneath. and we play these games of told you so, and I don't care, running away towards the same words that we say ourselves. We pretend to not need each other as we joke about timing, and meaning, assuming we can paint love from a jar of red blood. We can dip into the world's stories, re-capturing feelings like fireflies. we can love like angels who have never been touched, barley human walking the planet without footsteps. We can be great we say to one another through hushed thoughts, through deep and complex moments of insecurity and self doubt. we can be great, and in those four words, those two second heart beats, is often the pull back into the reality of dressing ourselves in shirts that are too tight, and skirts that are too short, and we see that we are not exactly what we are made of, wishes and stars, and dreams, we are also the invisible line between tangibility and nightmares, idealism and the endless relationship.