together we are

and then you get older and
then you get old

more ambivalent about life and death or
maybe this is just winter,
eight degrees at four in the
afternoon and no one here in love

no one there to explain why all of
the small things matter, or
maybe the simple fact
that none of them really do

you move forward

you feel tired

what's left in the end but to
go through the motions?

go to bed every night just to
get up again in the morning

dig a cold shallow grave
for each passing day

seems like enough right up
until the day that it isn't