Slam.

Our favorite onomatopoeia.
Our favorite conversation closer.
Burning brides and unintentional alliteration.
People forget, others stress, others go blank.
Some leak, some narrow.
One break down, careless back down.
Need is variable. Therefore, need nothing.

Happiness is square, sometimes,
and best served in a frosted glass.
Sophistication is favorite childhood cartoons,
and growing out of their button nose
with the needless claiming class.

I refuse to believe we're stronger by our most painful trials.
I won't believe in surviving death to abandon the living.
Listening's easy; comprehension takes compassion,
and well, it's hard to muster up these days, it seems.

Am I right?
This isn't being onto you;
It's certainty of correction,
and assurance it won't occur.
Just know that I want you, I do,
and that the rest is up to you.

I've forgotten how to take chances;
Cons outbalancing. It's hard to disappoint.
I could feed you cryptic uncertainty
until these hands lose key-grip fingertips;
I hide behind the faint doubts, the lack of forward honesty.
You do too.

Your greatest talents won't save you from back stairs.
Your favorite escape could leave you with no last words.
Clean air, spiteful variety, organized mess;
Smile at sleeping faces in messy sheets
five minutes longer than your impatience allows.

Sweet in the moment, rearview.
I swear these limits vow only to you.