Everything is quiet and still

Everything is quiet
and still. I hope everything
isn't frantic for you.
After the war sighs last
longer and twist discouragingly through
dinner conversations, overbearing
and infecting the air that binds
us. We're never the same.
On Sundays we pretend
we're still nice and unaffected.

Just before running away I
watch my father waste away
in his old chair, gripping his
newspaper as if holding
it tighter could somehow save
us all, confirming my belief
that there's no signs of life
left. I stare off at the misty
morning moon, awaken in the middle
of the day dream, miles off
and alone and whisked
away in some stranger's car.
He held me close
before he hit me, before he left
me on the side of the road. He sped away
and I was somehow happier, cold
and possessionless, champion
of the fate whose face I
ignored, distant and dark.

Just before its bleakest the sun shines
the most. I tremble for warmth,
shine brightest with no one around;
the deserted and desolate befriend
me. I couldn't say I was truly surviving
until I didn't know I'd survive another day.