Cataracts

He's resting his arms on the side of the shower. Umbrellas blowing against the wind. I turn on the lights, turn the water on, and he's standing there as grey as the dirt that rubs off of my back when I shower and start to scratch at the skin. He leans his head back against the wall and opens his mouth and tells me not to mind him. I look in the mirror across my shoulder and back at him and start to feel tears running down my soft cheek. Her hands press to them and I tell her it's wrong and back into the frame of the door and she (I love you, please come back and I'll figure out how to pierce every inch of my skin into some horrible ring). So I kiss her and pretend she's someone I love but not quite him and not quite her and not quite the man down the street with the funny smile that always catches me with his eyes when I walk by. He's the one that falls out of my mouth every time I open it and wants to crawl through the steel tunnels that connect those hearts while the nerves circle around each one and the saw tries to smash through the biggest one first.  The trees speak the language of the end of silence and sitting still and no insomnia for the first time ever. Who took the words from my lips and painted them across the horizon of the Blue Ridge Mountains? Who knew knowing the days and being able to tell them apart would be so easy because of the day I'm on for birth-control or the number of anti-depressants I have left that don't work? You don't work. When you straddled in front of me and I kept on, it didn't work. She looks across the room at me and I look away shamefully. She doesn't have a soul and straddles in front of me and I keep on. He watches and they dance, hovering until they mold as one on the pavement at the street corner while the man with the blow horn threatens god's (almost) salvation and I (only) want to vomit the rest of my lungs out with the exhale of the last cigarette drag I'll ever have.