gnashing

well, if both of us have torn parts
of ourselves out
with our teeth, then
at least we know
we don't make
an ill match.
it is no consolation,
though,
this along-side ache

full of heavy silence sighing through
our noses, our lips clamped
upon our treacherous tongues,
the
eerie
quiet
pacing through the house
until the endless rushing cycle of tormenting thoughts
stops.
halts.
begins to blur from your intoxicants [take your pick,
it's all numbness
in the end.]

we crash into ourselves and
pass through one another like ghosts.