Museum

My eyes are wet
and through my distorted vision everything looks
malleable.
But nothing is changing.

Facing each other
we stand like statues,
carefully set up for the most ascetic view.
Though after so many
re-occurrences
I'm thinking statues stand like us.

You say nothing.
I say nothing.
There is nothing new in the air.

Perhaps it is because we are both stone,
not puppets, neither are we clay.
There are no giant hands
that will mold us
into better people.

After every time
we "make-up," we lie, and simulate love.
I know the truth:
I can see us twenty years from now
still frozen
though the rooms are different, the clothes, the arguments.

The promise to try to do better is humming on your lips.
But nothing is changing.

So I walk out
and shut the door behind me.