dog days are those low moments. when you’re moving too fast, or you aren’t moving at all, and the fast and the not-at-all are happening at the same time, and you start thinking you’re a ticking bomb and you only feel mild curiosity about what’s going to happen when you kaboom.
dog days are a cigarette burn at your wrist; a subconscious non-accident?
they’re the times he asks, "why didn’t we happen?"
and when he immediately says, "we would have been perfect"
they’re handwritten letters treated with casual indifference.
they’re high hopes that waver on a second-ly basis.
they’re sleepless fitful nights of imagination, of what-if’s.
they’re euphoria that you bragged about being "ecstatic and insatiate"
they’re the tattoo and the book that was avoided, the tattoo and book that was yours.
they’re a series of failures that come to light at one go.
they’re the realization that maybe your quest to start over, is just you running away.
or quitting; worse, ten-fold.
they’re the beautiful cocktail shaker housing cosmo’s to mar impending ugly conversation.
they’re the slow distance and disconnect you forge so you can do some avoiding of your own.
they’re the futile affection you dredge up, only to be treated with emotionless symbols.
till you feel like an emotionless symbol yourself.
they’re the days you used to talk about art and literature, and draw and write for each other.
and now you’re talking about life and mistakes and the way things coulda shoulda woulda been.
they’re the cigarettes you crave, but cant have, because he chain smoked them all, so he could prolong the apology.
they’re the days when you want to confide, but can’t, because honestly, where would you start –
the beginning, the middle, or the end?
especially because you don’t know where you are –
beginning, middle or end?
i love dogs. not dog days.
never dog days.