The smoke of my death certificate fades into the ether of the night It is not my first. It is not my last. The beacon amplifies the smoke It dances in the gleam of the incandescence To track its path is to count the sands of the Sahara It waltzes like a paranoid ghost showering upwards Shimmying like an epileptic schizoid on a carousel Jostling in an undefined constraint
2005 sunday first day of spring The world may start to come alive Before in coffee shops viewed the world as gray Now we hear the birds sing, wedding bells ring, queen bees that sting, Wellspring Shaking off winter chills and enter springtime blues Here comes the sun The hills with vivid colors and lovebugs and crazy daisies Kids running crazy Screaming, water guns The weather becomes lazy And starts looking hazy
There was a thunderstorm last night. Today it smells like sweet petrichor, Coating my nose and holding everything Very Still. But last night. There was a thunderstorm. Thunder rolling like waves crashing and breaking on the shore. Lightning cutting jagged lines in the air. And so much rain that the puddles look like oceans. And the world is sweet petrichor. And through the thunderstorm, I thought of you. Your hand in mine. Your warm, sweet hugs. The soft kisses that part of me will always pretend never happened. And part of me aches for again.
Through the thunderstorm, My thought was of sharing the time with you.
There was a thunderstorm last night. One that almost shook the ground I stood on. And I was not afraid. But my fingers felt quite lonely. And my thoughts resided elsewhere. And now the morning's breaking, And the whole thing is kind of hazy. And the world's made of sweet petrichor. And my thoughts still lie on you.
We're all just symptoms of the way the world disposes its skeletons into our systems, carving names into our psyches like it makes any difference sleeping with the thought of our own mortality pressed against our ribs and counting the hours until we get out of these lives we're living we spend so long waiting to be something different, we waste away to the tapping of our own feet our hearts racing the clock because our brains blur reality into a haze of insgniciant moments. Press your fingers against my skin, make me forget this vicious cycle we are trapped in. I want to breathe for a moment without calculating the cost of each hour, do you see the way our feet are chased by our own shadows, inescapable? Mine dances sometimes when I take my fingers to the wheel and I feel like I'm flying sometimes in my dreams or waking half-realities, but halfway-things melt in the morning and seep back into my bloodstream at night. I'll be up before the sun, recounting each fleeting glimpse of could have beens, the irony being that mourning half-born things is what holds us from stitching up the pieces of what is now.