three

The time comes to let things go,
Move on, go on like before.
It may sound simple enough,
But truth is, it’s complicated stuff.

Especially when there’s three of us,
Three in one head, making a fuss.
We’re entertaining, but can be hell,
Having just one voice could be swell.

I say this, but it could be untrue.
It’s the three of us that make you, ‘YOU’.
You, the public face, have it the hardest,
It’s you that we push the farthest.
Between my logic and her sentiment,
You end up having many a dent.

Take yesterday, for example.
You can’t just shut us up with a pill.
[though in your case, a pill is a glass of Bailey’s.]
You cry as often as people see the Halley’s,
That could be hard to believe,
But then people see only what you let them perceive.
In our case, many don’t get to see much,
The emotional, soft-hearted side and such.

But I get to show up quite often,
Every time we feel ourselves slowly soften.
My part is an important one,
My sarcasm and fangs get plenty of jobs done.

But lately,
The two of us worry a bit about her.

She puts on her outside face as always,
But this could be her complicated phase.
We spin from utter darkness to joking madness,
Then back to a tinge of despair, and weariness.
We don’t know what it is, or even who,
We’re not quite sure what she wants to do.

Well, *cough cough* maybe we do know.
It could come down to someone of whom she can’t let go.

Rationalisations and work cases,
Black ink and straight faces.
Black Label or strong coffee,
She tries it all to set it free.

She doesn’t talk about it, of course.
She just wants to handle it alone, I suppose.
And now number 2 and me,
Our opinions usually are different as can be,
Look to the future to find another light,
Someone as nice as this chap, and as bright.
The difference though, lies in their choice.
A smarter boy would not have let her be available to other boys.

She thinks this is all good, though.
It leaves space for her work and so much more.
But sometimes, just sometimes, you can see her fear.
Through her cynicism, through all the walls and cold beer.

She’s decided what she should do, but one question always remains.
What if we don’t want to be alone?
What if one day, we stop being made of stone?