we’ve learmed to seperate ourselves from
columbian coffee night skies that breathe heavy,
whispering myth into our ears about a modern Perseus
and his love affairs.
i’m tired of the way air dances over fingertips
through open windows, disappearing like spirits
through blackened doorways.

MP is singing his personal praises in an aging voice
sounding of rock ‘n’ roll gravel and blood -
he is not the soft night breezes telling us of him
and we can’t understand why we’re separating.

i just want to listen to the myth,
old like the willows that leak sap upon their death beds,
but i’m drowning in silence.
we’re remembering grey rooms that hung heavily
over our heads, breaking the songs of MP
against the walls in a shattering display.

we’re shattering in the exact way demonstrated.

insomniac tendencies breaking into the breeze,
stealing myth and covering MP with filth,
with the stories that a modern Medusa split his heart
but never turned him to stone to make him suffer -
to bend but never break.
and we’re listening to the stories of old, written in the new,
wondering how to break the cycle.