We watch the ink stain my fingers
as you lay bleeding in your verbiage.

It is night, a starry pitch black affirmation.

Curling pens trapped in a resting place of
wrong and right.

Inside the fireplace, dissolving laughter
with each stampede of "uh huh and yeah".

Memories pass back and forth multiple times,
and words are written from ticket stubs,
crumbling flowers and photographs.


Sleepwalking into planets,
this is what we have.
This is what is left of
half torn pages and a
conversation between friends.

I hold my breath in the way you read your favorite book,
each syllable between pages 2 and 401.
Here, stories are procreated in wombs of long forgotten worlds.

Sometimes, we are wounded best in the quiet.
In the heart of every road taken,
life gives way to standing still on the weight of discussions,
cheeks pressed firmly into dirt.

Humming in the wake of silence,
aborted telegraph wires have shelter
from the rain.

Peeled skin puzzles place themselves within the blackout newspaper rants.

I spilled my guts on your best shirt, light blue.