Alternately.

Some days
it's like it doesn't matter.
Not you, not me,
not one bit.
And the grey tiles
that we work so much
at coloring pink
could just stay so.
Stark, chalky,
lining an empty room

And I'd mix white and green
and paint the walls
then hate it
because misery is pretty.
There would be red Chinese orbs
that'd light up a lonely hallway
that would soon fill up,
cluttered with bits of me:
private, intense, red.

And I think of
how it would be
to watch the sunset
alone,
a little chilly
from a park bench,
watching the sun fall behind the edge;
surrounded by doublets
and shrieking little testimonies to their love.

I imagine
what it'd be like
in a noisy cafe some night,
with a hangover
and smokes for company.
No one to look forward to,
to look good for,
in anonymity and color
and life rushing by.

Or waking up one morning
to an empty bed
my shapes and impressions alone.
Padding out
to the cold.
Joke-less mornings
some songs perhaps
and words,
from a sheet of paper.

Walks, singularly,
and all the little things
that could've been
are all alone.
Without you;
after you
if that ever comes to be.
Unshackled, would it be?
Or merely terrifying?

That we live
in this little shell,
where we reassure
and reach out and touch,
does it really matter?

There could always be
some rain,
some day,
that I'd watch through the glass
and write about
how I could be with you.