the sea, the lighthouse, the keeper & the lost ship

you ask me a question, only, it doesn’t feel like it is a question but a statement. you eyes are closed and your face is somewhere else but you’re here and you are asking me what colour the sky is. blue. blue. blue. someone is crying in the distance and your hands are fisted against your thighs.

this conversation sounds aimless, pointless about nothing, about colours, what you had this morning for breakfast, about the cracks under our feet. do you like pizza? we are talking but not about what matters, not about the whiteness of your knuckles and the stutters in our voice, the silence that sits heavy in our hearts.

and the distance. the distance.

you are not smiling, i’m not smiling but we are laughing and it hurts. it hurts. the lighthouse is hot and so close but i can’t see it, we can’t see it and this sea is drowning us, we can’t breathe but we are laughing and i can't hear my voice. when can we go home

we were standing once and now we are sitting down on crossed legs and looking up at the sky and everything feels so empty. this distance between us is too much. you are telling a story and i am not listening, i’m watching your eyes and there’s something missing.

there’s something missing.

who are you really