The Grand Machine

You sit with the stare of a deer in headlights, blinded-
I drive around in circles like a cockroach, dying slow-
and both of us tend to feel under-minded
for things we assume the other can't know

and it makes the stomach gripe and churn-
creating a rift that cracks the heart-
communication bound to lose its turn
and the silence enough to break us apart

I do hate to see the sorrow of your frown-
and you hate to see the tear in my eye-
a grand machine of time broken down
so if the Wright Brothers said we could fly
can I say we don't have to die?

*what a funny little time machine
letting love slip by*