It’s eyes closed, then the morning. It’s eyes wide, then the rifling through the names. It’s nobody’s fault, there’s not much here to persuade me. It’s the way it plays out, nothing lasts forever. Just the now thee lay mes and the pledged out flags, the drag of the draw, the heat of the flame. The wake into the frantic search, every noun gone AWOL. To still the wild just enough to wonder about the worse to come. There’s really nothing to it. I can do it in my sleep.
The song plays and I think of you. That could be so many songs, and a lot of thinking too. The machine doesn’t know what to make of blank coordinates. This intention weaponized and always waiting for a fix. This longing a cruel hollow emptied out over truth and time. This longing no fault of your own. It’s like the light in the morning window, or the sparrows waiting out the rain. A moment witnessed, the blessing sealed. Still, that Lana song unfurls and it’s you that seize my standard. Nothing to do but take the hit. The world knows what it’s doing.
You wake and you take a minute to find the time. You wake and you get the greatest hits. The world is spinning wild and you feel the countdown beneath your feet. The wake of the day, the wish for endearments, the weight of containment and the words that won’t come loose. The stories I will never hear, the details I will never know. This is the song, hand to my heart. This is the hill handed to me. The heavy how it gets.
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