It’s gray out, but there’s no rain.
My coffee’s gone stale.
Worse than the cigarette haze on my tongue.
At my desk, life seems faraway.
Distant, here in my lethargic bubble,
Penetrated only by—
Lua’s playing in the background.
Sounding out against the calm,
A broken voice, beautiful in the infant dawn,
The sun wakes.
Darkness bends when I open my eyes.
Slides and curls and twists,
Slinking into corners
where it can strive and fester.
It constantly struggles.
Trying to keep itself alive,
but there’s no point.
Shadow will always recede
in the face of light.
Sighs slip past lips,
syllables tangled over themselves
like weary limbs.
Sweat bleeds through pores,
encompassing webs of fire and heat that warm,
but never burn. Not truly.
Heartbeats stagger and race,
competing for something beyond,
lost in the unknowable distance—
past the infant dawn,
just over the bend.
And though it hurts to run,
though these lungs
have already endured too much…
Still, I carry on.
Despite not knowing what awaits me over the horizon.
Because pain and hardship changes a man.
But love changes him, too.
His laughter gives her visions
of melted chocolate and honey.
Rich and too warm to hold.
Pools of darkness swirl,
curling at the pit of her stomach,
forcing her to reach out.
And the fear of burning herself no longer matters.
The only thing of any import now is his voice—
And that he never stop speaking.
Windows starred with deathly fog,
Glass droplets falling from the sky,
Pooling around my world,
Rivulets of false, glinting paint,
And weeping lullabies
Words uttered without conviction,
Lost to time and chance,
Memories twisted to suit weakness,
Endless tomorrows, A cacophony of—
Drowsy days and ghastly nights,
All I hear are bottles…
clinking in my head, rampant and overflowing.
I don’t want sleep,
I desire rest.
Lightheaded with heat,
Air siphoned from lungs,
Absent, wandering attention,
Focus shifting to foreboding distances,
Dappling light and elusive stars,
Busy bees for eyes,
Brain kept occupied with thoughts—
Of green stems, Cobble paths, and red tiled rooftops,
Of dirty shoes, angry cars, and gleaming puddles.
Filled and far,
Far away from you.
glare acidic enough to scald,
chin tilted in defiance,
and mouth curved down
into a stubborn grimace.
still, I wish for no one… besides you,
and this ten-bob intimacy,
much more shocking and urgent than all the rest.
I remain here, swaddled in silence,
Noise spinning in my head,
Trying to command my pen—ha!
As if it’s ever obeyed me before.
These buried scrawls and conjured fantasies,
Are but proof that time passes strangely in the dark,
Moments collect by the handful,
Seconds pile into minutes,
And minutes into nothing at all,
Until all that’s left are harsh truths,
That my unlit soul can’t take.
but we’re both to blame.
Now, I must sit here with the remains,
of an old box with blown-out speakers.
Artificial laughter in the form of actors and actresses,
scripted to feel.
They radiate white noise and strange blurs.
My own horde of false company in empty space.