The feeling after you're done reading a book is so empty.
So final.
So quiet.
There's so much to wrap your head around
But there's nothing left.

I bet death is a lot like that.

I want to get so blind stumbling drunk
that the earth divides herself in twain;
and my half takes me up to heaven,
and then I want to go low again,
let the oceans sink me down into hell,
to drown all this creatures tiresome ambitions.

I'm dying in mundane status quo;
leaking icemakers and clogged disposals,
traffic fines and shopping lists,
car repairs and dinner guests,
and the endless wearing, wearying
wearing out the body,
wearing out the clothes,
wearing out the friends,
wearing out the soul-
need new shoes new wheels new goals;
need new gods;
I’m stuck in the shoals.

Pick a quiet spot
where the only noise heard
is grass growing old;
for life’s a careless happenstance;
that we should even be here,
dreaming forever our pick-pocket dreams,
one day this bubble will burst its seams
and we’ll go back to mute possibility,
where we’ll be filled up,
for eternity of eternities-

but down here, we remain half empty cups.

She came at night,
with her ghostly charm.
She explained to me
that she meant no harm.
She sat next to me,
said she wanted to talk.
So I held her hand,
her skin like chalk.
She said she was sorry
for what she'd done,
that all she wanted
was to have some fun.
And when I asked
what I meant to her,
she refused to answer
since she knew it would hurt.
She told me to stop,
that she'll never come back.
I told her I wouldn't
and to cut me some slack.
I asked her who she was
and if it was really that bad.
She said, "I am the lover
you thought you had."