cast aside the color in your eyes--we�ll take the side streets home tonight.
Most of all the passing time I spend clearing the fog off the glass. Tasting it before it scuttles to digest the cold night air and assemble itself back into the small space between my eyes and the outside. It helps exonerate my throat of anything I would hope to articulate to you if you were here right now. And it drastically warms my hands of these needs. Not just to know, but to feel, that one day I�ll have a reason to drown in my own sleep and share my dreams with you again.
But sincerely, some would only cogitate my shame to this imperfection. And I have never really been able define the meaning of what it is to drive parallel to the sea and captivate the illustrations of nightfall, one by one, as they fall upon me and splash my fingers of the salt a boy cried more than your ocean ever had. And then back down again, cultivating the sand of what no one ever saw in my eyes. And it�s like nothing ever happened.
It proves always the same in this dream: a massive road divides us. And someone somewhere knows what it is like to dream alone. Over again, arise and awake to the void that nests in my hands and gives birth to a new bleeding heart-like mass every morning--tinting the same sheets that covered me to my eyelids through the yearlong nights.
It was my only protection.
Still it never goes. And it�s very unlikely it ever will. So I lapse into my bed of potential and tonight follow the two red lights before me, because maybe one day this road really will take us somewhere.
That day isn't designed to fall on tomorrow�s horizon, is it?
So clinch me, because it�s about a character who dies in his slumber. It�s about a person who sits in his room in wonder, numbering the things that keep him up at night and losing count before the tears give in and kiss the floor, marking the collections on the rug she once stepped on. The same shades of red those two red lights before him wore. But this time, darker in appearance than before.
A friend says soon, this will all change...
The others say we live in an age of innocence--so close to the peace that the world would one day share together as children, carefree to the backgrounds that sheltered us. We own nothing more than a mirror of two hands that feed ourselves life off the smallest possible plate we can cover. We value the trepidation that one day, maybe just one day, we would turn around and hear their footsteps walking towards us.
Tonight I turned around...
And no footsteps were there.