We walk away from ourselves
Kicking the air
We say we don’t care
Ignore the wagging fingers
But everything must pass through
The hole in your side
The cover on the table is worn
It is no longer exceptional
As it was once considered
There is a pain behind the knee
Like a group of children
Pulling from multiple angles
I can still hear birds in the rain
The drops are a million tiny snare drums
But the dog rests quietly at my feet
On the kitchen floor
She knows the rules
But she will bend them every time
For these moments
Schwervon! 