The roads go one way, like closed questions, i just moved from london, if i drop you here is that ok, im weary enough to feel safe, no fear in scarcity, too tipsy to be scared of anything.
Nocturnal, not how it should be. No talons, or visions, or sound rebounding against my tantrums, no keyring on the spare key i keep losing.
You wouldn’t hold me, how embarrassing for me, of course you were right, still I was painfully lonely, and so fucking tired. Maybe I\'m not anything. I put on clothes like a stranger, stringing sentences together, waiting tables like it matters. The view is scenic, sometimes it takes my breath away when I don’t expect it. It’s flat like cardboard on the days I drink, pints of ink, heavier than you’d think, nobody gets as drunk as me, or as quick.
Peace, dappled heat, all this green disconnected, leaves abstract, living and doing it better than I can, fronds of lace, nodding with closed eyes as long as I dare, if I die I don’t mind, when I open my eyes, it is always the same. The may flies in the morning mist shed their skin. She got drunk and fell asleep underneath a damp tarpaulin, and she is not a morning person. Or afternoon. Or evening.
Secrets, a few, an open book, the smell of yellowing pages, the flat iron afternoon. Oppressive and narrow and well decorated, corridors of tired boards, announcing your intentions, well you might as well walk around screaming your own name, there can’t be much difference. A space to work hard for, a lock on the door. Maybe I\'m not nothing, there’s no way to be sure.