The butterfly effect.

The sprinklers turn on in the front yard & the grassroots stance of self preservation is fed by dazzling sorrow showers. You know just what I need but instead you cleat the green in some awkward stance, wearing the patch until it becomes dirt or worse. A stare in the wrong direction is to forget the eyes that hoped for yours, keeping us from walking the course forward, treading the patch beneath until it becomes dust.
I go to the window and pull the blinds from the wall, they're the prefect size to fit into my eyes. A young girl once told me life would be easier if she could block out the world, this might be the best way. She said seeing was believing. So if I never see you again, what difference does it make? Until I believe, I can't afford the luxury. I rub from my eyes what feels strangely like dust.
Behind me, the shower runs hot. I'm scalding inside. I need equilibrium but the thought of losing a layer or question of "could be" causes me to catch a breath from several years ago. Am I the sum of all my directions, footsteps, locked lips lost in lust longing to lament the loss of loneliness, washed underwear, wandering eyes, water drank and pissed, and all the molecules connecting my eyes to the tear drop moon? Or am I the sum of a dry towel five minutes later? I lean forward to shake my hair free of dust. I'm clean.
The bed holds my body with wrinkled sheets and worse things have happened during nights darker than this. My mind is bubbles blown through a tiny eclipse of silver light that falls through the blinds left open wide. The scalding leaves scars, it leaves notes on the inside of my ribs, it leaves me behind me that only I can see. Close the blinds, how nice it feels to be held by nothing. I can't believe how strange it is to be anything at all.