nightwrite twicewrite

Mumblings ooze and I'm sick of these pages and the shades in their patterns on my bedroom walls. The cluttered seems empty after a while, when my eyes are used to the same images in the same places and there's an itch at my elbow trying to remind me I have a funny bone or two to tickle the strangers at my sides while I memorize their faces in the late night lamp light.

I'm waiting for the rain as if it is a sure thing, watching flowers crumble to dust in my fingerprint canyons, the children so parched they're thinking of drinking the sky. Our breaths seem heavier each day, yet still shallow, like the air we breathe is solid and we can't gasp enough of it to sustain our thoughts, the colors nestling themselves on my chest, waiting to seep in, waiting quickly, clinging so they won't blow away. The steam beneath my feet is smoke, and mirrors--shattered like a million tiny smiles or maybe just one from a million angles, tossing itself hope but never gaining more because you can only give yourself what you have left after you give all the good to everyone else, in knots you tie with sticks, knowing that none are perfect but each is tied with love, and the moon lends you its light to help you count before the morning comes and the cold returns.