The Whole World

Crooked glasses. They hurt my head. Sight askew. In folding waves unaborted. Just like the night we first partook. And ever after that suckled that vein. Until no blood was left.

I made my way down the stairs. And had always planned on coming back up.

But the stairs became a slope. The molehill became a mountain.

And there I was at the bottom. As if I hadn't always been there.

The problem is I'd trusted myself.

I died a long time ago. Just no one noticed. Even I didn't. Life. One sip at a time. In fifteen minute increments. That's not living.

Every pace had a purpose. But not the one I had assumed.

Every night has its graces. But not enough.

For poorly folded people. All creased with the indications of shapes they'll never become.

It's not as if it ever mattered to anyone, but us. But sometimes it stills seems as if the whole world depends upon.

Or at least that it once did.