Me: I’m too weak to be strong. Too strong to be weak. Tired of being in between.
They: They inhale. They exhale. They dissolve in the air. They are dead.
We: One day we will come true. One day we will face something. Maybe each other. Maybe ourselves.
Me: My messy curls, my soft skin, my tight chest. My bluish eyelids, my bloodshot eyes after the night in front of the computer screen waiting for something, not sure of what exactly.
They: Their insider jokes. Their black and white selfies. Their voices.
Me: My footsteps. My lines. My pieces.
They: Their truth. Their lies.
Me: My mistakes. My music. My silence.
They: Their knifes. Their fists. Their screams.
Me: My traces. My laughter.
They: Their pain.
We: We listen to each other. We look into each other’s eyes. We breathe in. We touch each other’s skin. We start talking for the first time. We ask questions. We answer.
We: We are tired. We lean back on the coach and turn on Ray Charles. We relax and say nothing.
We: We have a meal. We talk. Shallow things. Deep things.
We: We argue. We cry. We talk. We understand each other. We laugh.
Me: I’m a satellite.
They: They are broken stars.
We: We’re a universe.
Me:
They:
We:
We: We live.
We: We leave.