It's 2pm on a Wednesday; you don't feel like
talking, so we sit in silence
staring at the static on your tv, like
it's our favourite show.

You're cross-legged eating custard creams
and milky tea,
I'm perched on the edge of your sofa, my
hands clenched in my pockets
As if its -2 outside.

But -2 is the average temperature of sadness,
And we're not sad, we're only
falling apart at the seams.
What else do you expect from
worn-out teens?

the custard cream
drops into your tea, the static screen
turns electric blue;
the power's out and the feelings, too.

You cry; I pretend it's laughter and
I laugh along
'til the noise leaks out of my eyes.
You say, "they come no matter
what, don't they?"

That's why we laugh when
the shutters rattle,
and I laugh when your fist
makes contact with my face,
at the old cracks
along your wrist,
when the tea mug
shatters,
and I laugh when our 'friendship'
does the same.

-(S.H)