Raising to a day that never ceases.
A collection of white noise that soothes my killer instincts.
A different sort of story I got told that spring.
Lay in the bed.
Count the moths flying on top.
The world is crumbling…
Are we the ones falling down?
They tell me that May is arriving late this year.
Fears and tears will be kept inside intimate walls.
Until further notice.
Don’t you forget all these insipid words.
I spend my days tracking moths down.
Some are dead, some are hiding in the cupboards.
Five remain on top of my bed.
Reminders of our monotony and darkest desires.
Don’t mind me.
I’m just here, trying to fix us both.
The world is crumbling…
and I won’t let us fall.