i walk down the same street every day to the same day every day the same people and the same problems the man on the corner with the papers you take out of pity and the girl on the stairs you stare at a little longer cause she's just a little different, but that's it. its all the same, every other day. and you don't change it. you go the same every day. . . the same the same the same, even the same thoughts, the same dreams, the same musings in and out of every niche of your body. it never changes. its always the same. the thoughts of him, in a warm nite in the middle of winter, holding close and making the sameness seem doable as long as he's there. but he's not anymore, so maybe its not the same afterall. but it is, because those same thoughts still run through your head day in and day out. the same thoughts of a time when she and you could laugh about the little things and discuss the big things when friends were friends and roommates were roommates and the lines could be and would be crossed if need be, but those are just thoughts now, all the same thoughts, day in day out because those lines can't be crossed because they're finite lines that take time, and not same time, to fix, and we have nothing to spare but same time. the same classes every day with the same pretentious professors that think they know everything when in all reality they are as confused with the mundane sameness as we are. but we all stay the same. the same thoughts the same dreams the same musings in and out of every niche of your body. of him of her of them- they're always the same--- until you're ....rescued.

by what though-- by a different sameness? because even with him, the perfect sameness, it was still all the same. and does it matter if its perfect or mundane or can we label the sameness of our thoughts, of our dreams, of the musings in and out of every niche of our body every damned day? can we label them differently, or are they all the same too?