we never make it past the front door
you walk me home sometimes,
love still hung upon my breath like a hangover.
i drag my feet beneath a drunken doe-eyed daze.
we laugh as i stumble,
staggering slant-legged across the sidewalk.
your eyes say you’ll catch me,
but your hands only twitch,
just a little series of tremors that twist through your fingers and die at their tips.
we talk about how the pines have grown tall,
your arm thrown around my shoulders as we reminisce over broken branches.
for a moment we stay that way.
then you remember what it means to me,
and you pull away.
we walk the rest of the way in silence,
and i tap my sneakers against the sidewalk in morse code.
.. / .-.. — - …- . / -. — — - ..-
you don’t seem to hear it.
you don’t say goodbye when we get to the front door,
just that you miss when the pines were still small.
i leave the door unlocked,
hoping you might come inside,
but you won’t.
you never do.
you’re only here to walk me home.