throwing stones in placid pools
you stare into the bathroom mirror. it's the same face every time. it's almost funny really -- you never look like you imagine. you run two hands through that messy mop of hair atop your head, and force that rain to run down the back of your neck. you peel off the shirt, tossing it aside, a crumpled mess on the floor. "i'll pick it up later." you unbuckle your belt, and as you make your way to the kitchen, you feel your pants fall from your hips with every step, clinging for dear life, and you wonder why you can't let go like this.
you collapse into the same familiar chair, in the same familiar house, far away from most of the noise, the people, everything. it's funny, this distance thing, when you find yourself detaching, disengaging, and stepping backward. he lets you see the mess you'd otherwise miss at a whisper's reach. "i've been wrong", you say. it wouldn't be the first time. or the last time for that matter. especially when you know you're going to make all the same ones again tomorrow. that's the problem: some messes shouldn't be cleaned up, sometimes being wrong is more satisfying, and getting caught in a downpour means being washed away by his landslide.