I used to watch the silver rain fall
On Sundays whilst listening to The National.
My breath would form fogged circles,
On cold windows, arching over a suburban view.

I watch your eyes move
Make plans behind ice irises
And beautiful though the April sun is
It scratches in dry heat

My tentative plans forming
Concrete ambition
My dreams melt into one
Mind ticking rapidly
In midday sun

So I don't really know where I'll be
                                       This time next year...

the skies have poured out their blue

and something about the way they do

reminds me of what I did to you.

but you knew I was no good;

you’d felt it on my skin and in the hollows of my knuckles,

as if my words weren’t enough.

the going always gets tough –

this chronic rollercoaster, where neither of us

can hang on until the end of the ride,

this terrible love we keep walking,

you’re stumbling and I’m never talking

I don’t know what it means anymore.

it’s just us on the kitchen floor

wondering which was deadlier:

the knives or the fire.

we’ll pretend I’m not a liar

and that you’re not losing this game –

anything that helps you keep sane.

your blood terrarium, my empty echoes

this codependent existence so shallow;

only killing time,

only killing what you wish could be mine.

Bells and all assorted pings.
Melodic melancholy meticulously mesmerizing me.
A baritone bleeds out across the flickering walls, intoxication festering with(in).
"Where have you been?"
A bed of boards, a few more knots, remains oddly comfortable.
Rhythmic ripples dig into the woodwork  gripping and grafting, fibrously.
Sinking out of me, in my time.
A little more letting, a little less me.
The cracks running with what's in
b e t w e e n.

"Tiny bubbles hang above me"