You could take back the crosses in your fingers.
There is the fork in the road, I can smell burnt plastic coming in from the window I cannot close.
There are violins coming from my television, they've been playing for days, the same song.
This room is chaos I refuse to correct. The bed is unmade, the shoes have their homes, a coat on the back of my chair.
Still I'm sitting in front of this fork in the road, intersection, two ways.
I cannot move forward, I can't take the steps, can't connect, can't disconnect. It hurts to stay, it will hurt to go, either path is a road I would rather not take.
My desire to mourn that which cannot happen, my sadness and frustration. I'm taking inventory of my past to determine why these things happen, why I'm not living a charmed life. Today you realized you cannot through wires, what I said would happen.
I can't do anything but bang my head against a wall and cry at the pain I've caused myself. I can count the days as each wasted, not to be regained, earning nothing. Putting everything into nothing, again and again, gaining no insight, experience in heart ache doesn't qualify me for much.