There's a nothingness that comes with twenty somethingness,
A blackness or a blankness to match with the last King drawn,
A solemness, a complete nakedness to walk beside my stacked up red cups,
A finality that rhymes beautifully with a table wiped clean, and a phone call disconnected,
A book end, a chapter end, a slammed door closed,
An empty bottle, or kicked tin can dry from its holes across the bottom,
From the netted screen door that's jingling and jangling on our hinges,
Of broken promises,
Missed messages,
Mixed signals,
And expensive excommunications,
Walky Talky Fuzziness that reminds me of you and reminds me of me,
Reminds me of a tunnel full of clocks and sitting room furniture,
That smells of Hedda Gabler's powdered hands, or Plath's misused oven,
That looks just like a doorway leading from the white to red queen,
Just as long as the street that leads to a job I can't believe is mine,
Like the commute I can't believe I bear, like my blazer with tweed patches I can't believe I wear,
Like the parade of exes I can't believe I dared, or all the reasons I don't have to care,
With a lined smile, stressed eyes, a dull tiredness I'm too young for,
I'll take my rock, paper, scissor hands and snip away at our shared, ribbon telephone wire,
Slap myself brutally and soberly aware,
Cancel my miles and forget about that which connects me to twentytwo,
Connects me to you.
