To awake, still swaddled in the trappings of rain and smoke, and to be loved yet. To wander through these shards and remnants, and still owe something to another heart. This song does not wane, it does not fade in the noise of crowds or beneath the crushing weight of loneliness. This music is the leaf crush of the unkempt gutter, the piss stink of the corners left to ruin. Like any form of devotion, it lays in uncommon regard for the aimless self, cunning and wicked and as hungry as any stray. Like any rumored poetry, it ends in swathes of confusion and pride. The longed for comfort of arms that ache to hold greater than this common longing to be held. It is this ruinous moment, again out to sea amid the dense peals of a dry and silent town.
Missing the moon, gone despite the callow gathering of clouds. Missing the rain despite the sheen of these sprinkled streets. Missing a love that was lost, a lover that never was. The usual melancholy suspects, mumbled after with a mouth full of ash and hubris. Ghosts spoken of only in the past tense, tensions arisen between language and the very act of naming things. Oh blue mood, black dog, rotted haunted heart--. Oh wailing train, ambulance tear, worn through mask--. Bitter that the predictable works according to expectations, that this deep bitter draw produces only the acrid air and sooty fingers. The absent miracle that makes one spit and curse, reality always showing up uninvited.
The sky glides by, a murk between me and the stars. My heart skips and stutters, another sickness driven forth from empty hours and bad living. Foolish and shameful, letting these lapsed kisses dissolve too slowly beneath a clumsy tongue. Silly and racked with flocks and strays, I watch the clock chase its tail. Sleepless night, dangerous dreams, with eyes aimed skyward and a cat at my shins. Kindness wandering off its leash while strangers press their every point. It all bleeds out, and I accept these meager vicious ends. Just one more, I whisper. One last beautiful thing.
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