this floor is where we started.
lying on our backs, flirting with careless abandonment.
still too young to ever know all we could become,
how the world would deny us existence,
because they didnt have a word for people like us.
my socks, they whisper prayers,
against these hardwood floors,
dancing across something akin to a grave.
They have grown cold without our bodies.
we have seperated like the fork of a river or vine,
slowly diverging from each other,
this floor, a chasm.
