You treat the spaces in between us
like objects of permanence in the universe.
And I occasionally find myself offended by this attitude.
But as I watch your hands flying over the ivory
twin prop airplanes preparing for the war.
Your fingers, mallets
striking out every last imperfection in the keys.
Your voice is a siren piercing the night.
And I begin to understand
that you were right.
This is forever
and we're not going home.
We're just drifting.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 1:52 AM UTC
You treat the spaces in between us
like objects of permanence in the universe.
And I occasionally find myself offended by this attitude.
But as I watch your hands flying over the ivory
twin prop airplanes preparing for the war.
Your fingers, mallets
striking out every last imperfection in the keys.
Your voice is a siren piercing the night.
And I begin to understand
that you were right.
This is forever
and we're not going home.
We're just drifting.