Because I Don't Know What He Does With His Half

Bala

Balan

Balance.

You get out of the theater early.

A spotlight burned out,

and it won't be repaired for at least a week.

You get home two hours before you normally do.

You knock on the door,

get buzzed in by the receptionist,

take the elevator up to your apartment.

It takes you a little while

to find the proper key.

You can hear people talking from inside.

You wonder if there's a party.

Could it be yours?

No, your birthday was two months ago.

Could it be his?

No, his birthday isn't for another two months.

You shove the key into the door

and drag yourself inside.

There he is, sitting on the couch,

kissing some girl you've never seen before.

It takes you mere seconds to understand the scene.

You drop your bags and run,

tears running down your face

nearly as fast

as you run from the wreckage of your heart.

You run and run and run and run

until you can't run anymore.

You run so long and so hard and so fast

that you get to the end of the Earth.

You stand there at the edge,

staring over the brink,

waiting at the place

where the sidewalk ends.

You trip,

you fall,

you tumble.

You wake up.

You look around.

Just a bad dream.

Just a bad nightmare.

Just a bad memory.