I took a sip of metaphysical water, now it's hard to tell heads from walls; mutual blankness.

The less we speak, the more I'm speechless. They do all the talking, I do all the thinking; it's not mutual, it's conflictual.

When the temperature drops, mine rises. I feel exhausted from opening the door, taking a shower is rolling a boulder up a hill, taking off my shirt is shedding my skin; nothing mutual between mental and physical strains.

I wish to lie down and have it be meaningful, but it occurs to me someone had to paint the ceiling at some point, and I go spinning through time as time spins past me. I can't control the hyperbolic ways of this bed; seven minutes every day is a whole day.

I wish to run while holding your hand because we're late, laughing the wind into our lungs because it doesn't really matter, it's nothing like tying shoe laces. It's a young life I'm dreaming of, but it's an ever taller order on the lighter once a year.

I'm still waiting for the fatigue to vanish, but maybe it will only grow as I grow old. Maybe we could be tired together. It's a compromise. It would be mutual.