Invisible Ink x Going Through the Motions Going (Mashup)
She’s three feet away and she’s somewhere past the state line,
Thumbs running across the glass like I’m not on her timeline.
Up at the approximate correct time—the clock says something close to right,
Coffee before seven, check the back lock, step into the light
Of the morning’s practiced opening sequence, the established run
Of tooth and mirror and the choosing of the shirt—the done
And done-again of every morning laid out before me
Like the worn path through the field where someone in a story
Walked their whole life without asking what was at the end—
I walk it. I’m efficient. I attend.
Going
Going
I pour the second cup she won’t finish and stand by the stove,
Listening to the house, trying to find the seam or the groove
Where we stopped being people and became a floor plan —
Two bodies crossing the same hallway who used to have a plan.
I memorized the way she used to enter a room,
The way she’d find my eyes from across whatever distance
We were navigating — now she navigates a bloom
Of notifications and I’ve learned to keep my distance
From whatever’s over there, past the pillow, past the wall,
Past the bed that used to feel like somewhere
and now just feels like where I sleep.
Invisible ink on everything I said to you,
Every word I laid down let the light right through,
Two people in a house where only one of us is home —
I’ve been going so transparent I think I’m nearly gone.
Going through the motions—going.
The sequence holds without the showing
Of the person in the mechanism, the ghost
Inside the working—going through the motions, coast
To coast from door to desk to door, the calibrated grace
Of someone who has memorized the space
They’re moving through without the need to feel it—
Going through the motions. I can steal it.
I’m genuinely good at this—I’ll take that credit without hedging.
The performance is solid, the external edging
Of a man who’s present holds up under the casual inspection
Of the open office, the hallway, the mid-meeting question
About my thoughts on a thing I’m listening to—
I have thoughts. I deliver them. I do
The thing and then the next thing and then the drive back
And the door again and the evening’s different track
Of the same going-through-the-motions—quieter,
Less witnessed, the interior running at the quieter
Register of the same unfeeling function.
The couch. The screen. The junction
Of another day successfully completed and not felt.
The hand I was dealt.
A hollow arrangement of the life we didn’t share
Enough of, in the end. I set the keys down, take the chair.
Tell me something real — I practice that
in the mirror some mornings,
Something true, something off the card you keep — no warnings,
But I put the coffee down and follow all the warnings
Of a man who’s learned what questions he should keep
To himself, who’s gotten good at quiet,
Who’s made a kind of peace with being present but unread,
Who sets the alarm and takes his side and doesn’t riot —
And lies in the dark a little further from the edge
Of the bed each night.
Going
Going
Going through the motions going through—
The desk, the drive, the door, the residue
Of a man who memorized the route
And runs it without variance or doubt.
Going through the motions. Shows up. Delivers.
Going through the motions. Something shivers
Underneath the function—something that remembers
Wanting this. Going through the motions. Embers.
Invisible ink on everything I said to you,
Every word I laid down let the light right through.
Two people in a house where only one of us is home —
I’ve been going so transparent I think I’m nearly gone.
Two bodies in a hallway, two ghosts in a plan,
One going through the motions, one fading where they stand.
The couch. The screen. The practiced, quiet spin,
The floor plan closing where the life should’ve been.
Going through the motions—still. Concerned.
Invisible ink on everything we learned.
Two people in a house where only one of us is home,
Going through the motions, going
Going
Gone.