Rain or not, the clouds roll by. The streets are ringed with grit and gravel. Every word out my mouth seems either swear or oath. Every bite I take is seasoned with sand. Nothing I do is reasoned right. Nothing I do will redeem me.
It is in the flickering of distant stars through the swaying limbs of trees. It is in the sparkle of salt spilled on the table. Dishes leaning in the sink, the knife already drying in the rack. The door locked up against a night that feels already too long and warm. There is the drift washed in along side the missed meaning. There is the sound of fingers on plastic keys, my hands too heavy to get it right.
Futile doesn't worry me much any longer. Futility is the flavor of much that is needed, and all that is allowed. This exercise in lapse and grasp is pointless, and might be well past played out. The lost words are always slipping away, the point of the problem seems too elusive to allude towards any more. Too much make-believe makes the real invisible. Fill up on empty too long, hunger is all that is left.