Wednesday, May 4, 2011

cliche

It is in the hours, if you are counting. It is in the room, perched upon the bed frame, teeth pressed against your dreams. The thoughts that won't stop, the tomorrow that won't begin. Sleep that ship that has run ashore. Love that pet that will cost you the deposit.

If I could, I would write you a letter. Something a little light, something a little sweet. Some tender to soothe these aching days. Some compress to dissuade the fundamental damage. Word set upon word, the lines laden heavy with flocks of lovely song and deft plumage. I would put it all on paper, slip it under your windshield wiper blade, or slide it beneath your door. Just a few scribbled promises that the world loves you yet.

The night knows that there is no soothing answers. The night knows where the skeletons are buried. You will see the seams that hold the sky together. You will feel the tension between the sea of stars and the map to your forgotten treasures. This long lonesome is upon you, and no company, no cure will free you. Time idles on and on, settling down on your sofa. Time loiters carelessly, touching every skin. Your heart hurts, and will hurt some more, before it finds a way to heal.

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