We were sinking in here,
not settling,
so much as sinking,
and every day,
we got a little bit further down,
and apart,
and I was starting to notice the fissures,
first in your fingers,
then between the hairs on our heads,
and next to the scar on the back of mine,
and I was okay sleeping in the dirt with you,
until I realized one Tuesday that our finger nails were getting longer,
and our finger tips were getting further apart,
and I refused to believe the divide was physical,
and not of our own making,
we were getting worse with the bathtub gin in the attic,
and the stairs had become shitty scaffolding the pushed us upward like a seesaw,
and back into that hot mess,
of all the things we never wanted to begin with---
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