only the trees know

                                         where our shoes have slid

and only the wind whispers

                                                       where we’re to go

only the ground beneath

                                                      kn­ows the silence i

finally felt like i

                                  understood

and leaving strikes a cord within me that strives to never have been hit,

a chime along the wind similar to a smile and a cry - if you are strained,

- it is heard by the pained,

and if you sift through knowledge, deep down you’ll find,

that anything and everything i say is just a curated lie,

a half fled answer to our incomplete reality,

and the love that i say i have,

but i am empty,

except for the music that is kept within me.


and i’ll say to myself that people will remember;

in december when the nights are long and hot,

and when the air seems to have memory

but they will not, and i will be alone once again,

with the melody that makes up my heart.

how many more
                
          drying days

                              until your name is just

       recycled little letters

                           sprinkled in my
  
        lonely language?

beats are pulsing through lit eyes
that see amber
coated in a hand
that looks like honey
underneath the
yellow streetlights
a small head sticks out a
moving car window
on a still darkened evening
the only sound the
soft wind
and
the endless haunting unknown