tiny broken pieces and a faint memory of you

survival-one hundred three

the fan is killing our eardrums
hesitations are flooding our bodies
as our petrified eyes fidget through the lights
the waiting and shaking of our fingers
and palms are clammy
as we hear the breaking of the bottles aside
we think of things that we can do to pass the time
as we sit down like partners of an abandoned mime
we joke about being able to survive
but in reality what we want is to just make it out alive