On nothing day
I talk to myself
And know myself
Better than I will tomorrow
Better tonight
Amongst a lifetime of clutter
Between childhood diaries
And what could be a clover field, in a dream,
where everything was the same but better
Like it is when I write it down
On soft paper, cream with a pressed flower
Folded in the seam.
Of course, I have never written on this soft paper,
And tonight, on nothing day,
I type with tired, uneasy fingers
On a screen too bright for midnight eyes.
And yet in all the nastiness and stickiness
The imperfections, oddities
The house spider webs,
Crooked paintings,
Big black ants, crawling up my legs
Here, in nothing day,
I somehow know myself better
Than I will tomorrow.
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 12:08 AM UTC
On nothing day
I talk to myself
And know myself
Better than I will tomorrow
Better tonight
Amongst a lifetime of clutter
Between childhood diaries
And what could be a clover field, in a dream,
where everything was the same but better
Like it is when I write it down
On soft paper, cream with a pressed flower
Folded in the seam.
Of course, I have never written on this soft paper,
And tonight, on nothing day,
I type with tired, uneasy fingers
On a screen too bright for midnight eyes.
And yet in all the nastiness and stickiness
The imperfections, oddities
The house spider webs,
Crooked paintings,
Big black ants, crawling up my legs
Here, in nothing day,
I somehow know myself better
Than I will tomorrow.
