we poke sticks at the spider webs in the yard.
we whisper promises to a moonless sky.
I hear your cries but don't listen.
Just as you look into my eyes but don't see.
The fog is lifting, but only to reveal the cracked concrete that we stand on. The cold is fading, but only to spark a flame that will once again singe my fingertips.
My stomach turns when I think of sleep. All the motions of yesterday seem to fade away when I dream. They're lost in the darkness, dead upon impact, pillow to skull and then it’s all gone.
I never could draw. It was something about the heads, the eyes, the hands, that I never got right. The feet always ended up different sizes. I could never capture that thing we tend to have. The silent thing. You know, the thing that you can’t put words too. That thing that's gone when you're dead, when the blood stops rushing, and the palms stop sweating. Not the skin, not the nice faces, not the smiles and tears.
Give me what I can manage, I can hold it for now
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 10:45 PM UTC
we poke sticks at the spider webs in the yard.
we whisper promises to a moonless sky.
I hear your cries but don't listen.
Just as you look into my eyes but don't see.
The fog is lifting, but only to reveal the cracked concrete that we stand on. The cold is fading, but only to spark a flame that will once again singe my fingertips.
My stomach turns when I think of sleep. All the motions of yesterday seem to fade away when I dream. They're lost in the darkness, dead upon impact, pillow to skull and then it’s all gone.
I never could draw. It was something about the heads, the eyes, the hands, that I never got right. The feet always ended up different sizes. I could never capture that thing we tend to have. The silent thing. You know, the thing that you can’t put words too. That thing that's gone when you're dead, when the blood stops rushing, and the palms stop sweating. Not the skin, not the nice faces, not the smiles and tears.
Give me what I can manage, I can hold it for now
