Jacks of Hearts

As I listened to him rattle on, I couldn’t help to want to call him out on his several inaccuracies; on the countless opportunities that I watched him squander day in and day out. A nagging filibuster of could be and what was. At this point, even his surroundings matched the subtle hints in his voice; betrayed the idea that he was a step below not fixing it if it isn’t broken. The napkins curled up onto themselves quietly on the floor, but the socks grew cold to him and some of the blinds at the window even turned their backs at the fact: if it doesn’t bother him, why change it?

Of course this was my lifestyle too. If I had issue with such self-apathy I would have demanded he clean the dishes days ago, but then he would have to call me out on my bullshit too. Let me know how I’ve been perfectly content to sleep with a ghost every night; the one who assures me that she isn’t there to assure me. Not because I’m traveling the road less taken. Real salty motherfuckers take that road, and people follow them to heaven and hell, or so I’ve been told. No, it’s because I took the road less looked up to; and as humbling an experience as any other may be it sure doesn’t provide for many campfire stories. She's a sweetheart when I make her that way.

Abandonment is something we’ve come to cultivate. We’ll choke down the preachings if only to live in theory for just one more day. Two jacks leaning on each other in the wake of a fallen card pyramid and we do what we can to keep on staring down; because once we get a little eye contact, we’re dropping just like the rest of them.