Sometimes the day trails off and you’re left there staring. Sometimes the hours go witnessed with little worth, the moment sitting there, waiting to see you what you say. Scratching at skins and thoughts within, watching the words run down the clock. Looking up to see a number, thinking the number you see. Little ways to abide the listless infinities passing unattended between the hours, lack and want the tide of your ocean, crowded rooms and crashing waves and the vast expanses stretching sleep to sleep. Uncouth operators and the sound of the drier tumbling bedding in the dark. Grease and gristle, and the razor always waiting to cut in.
Some still wait for answers, some want you to draw them a map. It’s the ceiling, it’s the spider, it’s the singing on a tv show. It’s waiting to pass out candy, it’s waiting on the time to change. You watch it as it washes over you. You watch it while it passes you by. Out of love, no glory, just a reliquary full of wounds and a couple pieces of brief love stories. I leave out a lot because most of it I miss, living on memories and words spoken only once. I leave out a lot, because a lot goes into a lifelong lonesome.
How we should have sung with the windows open, salt in the air and eyes on the road. How we should have kissed in those long cold moments mistaken. It’s all soapbox and spellbinders, preposterous sagas in the wake of someone growing bored, at last over the nonsense and already out the door. The ubiquity of the blind spot when soothed with claims and kisses, the role you seem fated to play. Spilled milk and done deals, used to Minotaur and labyrinth and haunting with intent, the litany in perpetuity. Dark streets and lit windows, the shave and the shower. Eyes open, seeing nothing near, as regrets and memories mercilessly “yes and” me. Eyes open, and the night’s just getting started.
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