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if you look in his eyes, will there be the dancing fireflies from that crisp spring evening? or maybe, if you’re lucky you might find the meandering streams and cascading waterfalls that you once trekked by during summer a year ago. but deep inside you know that irises are just irises and what you’ll find is but the bland reflective veneer of what we term the sclera.

beginnings are always the most fun. you take a novelty and build up so much excitement that you might explode, you want to perch on your roof and sing to the world or float away on a massive bunch of helium balloons. but somewhere along the way the balloons deflate one by one and gradually you fall further away from heaven, closer to the ground, closer to hard concrete reality. suddenly you sigh and you don’t feel like you’re exploding anymore. that’s when you know your beginning is, sadly, coming to an end.

and that’s when the mundanity the weather-is-really-good-today the whistling of the kettle bubbling of the soup
on the hob start to get annoy
ingly noticeable and
you both start to drum your fingers against the table or
t t t a p your feet on the leg of your chair forming a crazy ill conceived
broken melody but that’s all you do (because
anything is better than silence)