Detachment

You and I are like glass houses where passersby stay but don't live. No, that doesn't stop us from being their favourite haunt. Instead, when it's the dead hour, we conspire and take off their dilapidated heads to fantasy lands.

We are no economics but they keep coming back. We know, we know how it is. How the night shivers of little fingers excite, You and Me and all of them. Can anything be kept back from us? 

We wait till our faces are charred by the gloom outside and when it disappears we grow mad. We can only see ourselves. Mine reflection in you, yours in mine. There is nothing we could give to each other now and we know that. Except burnt, tarred kisses of our lungs, or is it just a few ounces of air blown over burning forests? 

You didn't reply me back, what more do you have? No, don't look so held back. Not every question needs to be answered. We see all the subjects we read a decade ago coming to life but our eyes are vacant. Our four eyes don't see the same things. We are only an insignificant man standing on a lump of mass between ever-widening ravines. We know it's not going to last long. We would be swept off, the land would be swept off. 

And then what more will you build? Except half torn up, hanging limbs. Look, our clothes look so bright on them. We squinch, we sit on our haunches so that we can process. We could get past it. This narrowing. This undesirable growth in our womb. Tell me, would they ever dry? Just a little dust in the ocean and the ocean is dirty. 

We may be glass houses but I know how to break, forget the world and you know how to stay put, forget me.