I want to sleep until the moon is full. To wait with closed eyes for something that's already here.
It's like your sadness. It looks at me with screaming eyes under uninterested brows through black holes. It scoops crystals under your couch and doesn't hesitate to tell me that it's happy to be here.
It presses piano keys with disdain, beckoning sinuous sounds of catharsis.
What is this furnace that burns us? Why does this sternness turns us worthless?
I want to sleep until the moon is full. I want to sleep until I get back. I want to sleep until I've found what's real. To wait with closed eyes for something that's already here.
You could do with some shut-eye yourself it seems.