One day, you’ll get to the point
where you forget what people look like.

But you’ll still feel the throw—
the impact of cracked plastic
on warehouse walls, paint splattered
and dizzying as the blues and reds chase
after each other, pros and cons hungry
for an ending where there’s only
one answer to a thousand mistakes.

We can walk as far as we’d like and
the uneven sidewalk is here to stay,
our uncertain footsteps simply line
up for another halfhearted tryout for
a role with lines unwritten, yet kept
for those so new they know nothing
about what happens when you take
a fistful of prayers, reciting rules that
you’re not sure anyone should follow.

You’ll mock your own worst enemy—
the smirk reflected on the sides of
scratched glass, rearview mirror smooth
like Saran Wrap that won’t dry your tears
but contains the spillage, its best work
done amidst the nonsense of noise
that ensnares nothing but bitter fear.

In forgetting what people look like,
you’ll still remain far from the point.