All my life, this is the broken record of it. The rainbow cut to scraps, the tired drive into another bright good bye of a horizon. The dull plodding litany of curse and kiss, the enumeration of this wrecked alphabet. Love's embers as they dwindle, luck's mercy in hits and misses. The fretting and the fury, and the thousand quiet failures that dot and fleck each day. All this living, and I still have nothing to say.
Something shifts and something settles. The night arrived early, dark as licorice, heavy as stone. I can feel my bones shift, my own weakness the last thing holding me up. I can hear those fallen stars and failed wishes, scratching at the glass. A few more words and I can tumble into bed. Maybe to dream a little. Maybe to sleep at ease.
Spill the words, crib the meanings. Always wearily filling in the margins. Always sullenly littering in the gaps. Some little tension lingering in the language. Some small miracle to be gained from sifting through the ash. Another day gone, staggering towards another weekend. Another sorry note, trying to find something to remember. I know I long ago wore out my welcome. The rest of this is only trying to find the rest.
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