When the world stops spinning, let me know
I'll be waiting from all the corners of your consciousness
rocking back and forth like a baby
in the womb of your desperation
peeking out from behind closed fingers
on open hands
wondering why you've let me sit and collect dust
grow mold
grow old
with you but without you
waiting,
patiently waiting for everything and nothing
to come true.
I'll be hiding behind a book from your library of “if”s
down the hallway labeled “ands”
under the desk where you wrote this open-ended life story
where I, I am both the protagonist and the antagonist
causing and running from my own agony
building and trapped within a chamber of codependency and
lies that make us feel better in vain
because we both know how the ending goes
but neither wants to go to sleep
because sleeping is waking up and
waking up means ending this dream
and ending this dream means
closing our book
finishing your bed-time story.