The list of crimes goes on and on. It makes it so hard to choose. The light that leaves, the lamp left burning. The story that never seems to fit. The words just silk between your fingers. The line stitched directly in the skin, read aloud to the cold cruel sky. This is how you meet your maker as he tries to lay you in your grave. This is how you know your place, finding none left for you.
I feel the weight of the absent sun, the press of the sorrow in the walls. My name only written ever in dust. The reasons all me flailing, always a little far from the shore. The lesson my undoing, every stroke more evidence I need erasing. Another room to be lost inside, another door to hold me back. I feel as if I should say your name. I don't know what I am learning.
We are what becomes of justice. We are each of us someone's last laugh. The story never where we left it, while we held our breath the world moved on. Somehow the thought so much the burden, the only thing lost hard the thing that will never be. The days all dust, tomorrows all scattered. The names and numbers the only lie left. The shadows swallow every ache, the sorrow every wonder. Our sentence served interminable, the future too far to follow.