Scapegoats and Sacred Cows

I met you in a fever dream as the sides of the world crumbled away. We laughed and kissed and began to dance but the floor started to break.

I grabbed your wrists and tried to hold tight but you got away on your own section of the floor. And even though it was me holding to you, I woke with bruises that didn’t heal for weeks.

Night after night, my world crumbles and rebuilds and crumbles again but you’ve never reappeared. The bruises have yellowed and faded. I put them there myself I suppose, and fever dreams can never be duplicated.