Whatever happened after the first one?
I could get scared of traffic lights, with their clear, direct orders concerning the advancement of movement. I am down some end of the visible spectrum as though awaiting confirmation that I even exist while meteorically fast cars pass by me and sometimes over me
I break this troubled confession off of my skin and wait for the open place to heal. Someone dips their fingers into an oil and wipes it slowly against my open lips, parted to accept their familiar appeal to my senses
The sound of metal growing within wood is recorded into my conscious remembering of yesterday and grinds out the unwanted parasite of thought preparing to attack my hopes. In an elevator car the size of my agony we ride to a high office that overlooks the world recreated in bakelite and monochromatic schemes
There is a hole against a black-lit back top of the future. He sits somewhere under the stars of my home world and waits for me to unfold his way. We’re easily the last two things that matter. In my right hand a road stretches backward to a small hometown I can barely remember, but there is a river and beside the river is a church and in the church is shadow that hides behind a stone column. I left something there a long time ago and it remembers me by opening its hand and showing me the path back to myself, wrapped in the fist of my left hand, traveling towards his head too fast to stop
The sound of murder is the reverse momentum of love, pressed up in a tight space and exploding into one instant of painless feeling, of guiltless action, and of tired victory. The silence that follows the scream lasts forever and ends in echoes that float backwards in time to the point where they began and repeat in memory like code that won’t corrupt
I break this troubled confession off of my skin and wait for the open place to heal. Someone dips their fingers into an oil and wipes it slowly against my open lips, parted to accept their familiar appeal to my senses
The sound of metal growing within wood is recorded into my conscious remembering of yesterday and grinds out the unwanted parasite of thought preparing to attack my hopes. In an elevator car the size of my agony we ride to a high office that overlooks the world recreated in bakelite and monochromatic schemes
There is a hole against a black-lit back top of the future. He sits somewhere under the stars of my home world and waits for me to unfold his way. We’re easily the last two things that matter. In my right hand a road stretches backward to a small hometown I can barely remember, but there is a river and beside the river is a church and in the church is shadow that hides behind a stone column. I left something there a long time ago and it remembers me by opening its hand and showing me the path back to myself, wrapped in the fist of my left hand, traveling towards his head too fast to stop
The sound of murder is the reverse momentum of love, pressed up in a tight space and exploding into one instant of painless feeling, of guiltless action, and of tired victory. The silence that follows the scream lasts forever and ends in echoes that float backwards in time to the point where they began and repeat in memory like code that won’t corrupt