The furniture

There is this weird casam between people. This hello and goodbye, where we never really know eachother. This strange passing of hands, of rings, and beliefs without every seeing into  the eyes that hold our tongue, the word games of expressions and need to know information, as we often burn in liking, burn hoping to change the world again, through pregnancy or kindness. There is an often strange dialect to the ticking tocks that follow us around, with shoulds haves, and would have beens if we only followed the right ways to be. The human beings dissected in science classrooms next to flowers. And we live believing in our own mistakes as if they created us, as if we were only our case studies, our own madness inside out. We live thinking we could change one another with an example a pain unsaid, but often these humans, these soft hands in the night are just windows, faces reflected off the furniture in an empty room.