The back is still desperately empty.
I want to go back to the time when bricks were still answers and they fit our hands like gloves. Rough palms pointed upwards. And I didn't even realize that I was opening old wounds until I heard the all-too-familiar tearing sound of scar tissue.
In twilight hours the frame of this house trembles under my feet. I am left alone in the semi-dark to think that it was never made for me.
My favorite station of the cross is #7: Jesus Falls The Second Time.
I don't think it's funny, I don't think it's sad. I watch it with the same detached curiosity that one might afford a man in crutches trying to maneuver the crowded New York City streets at 4:30pm on a slightly overcast day in late Fall.
Whispers tear at my throat and I know that if I were to speak my voice would be broken glass and cigarette smoke. It would carry much too far in this dense room and the harshness of the echo off of these empty walls would cause me to know things, too many things.
All I need to do is to fill everything up. To fill everything up with light.
They said to say it in 500 words. Something I couldn't do.
"fuck you" is four ninety eight too few.
Sparks fly as it comes into my mind. I wonder if it got lost at the beach. I wonder if I lost it a long time ago. I wonder if it was always supposed to be this way.
I wonder, and I sleep in songs.
In twilight hours the frame of this house trembles under my feet. I am left alone in the semi-dark to think that it was never made for me.
My favorite station of the cross is #7: Jesus Falls The Second Time.
I don't think it's funny, I don't think it's sad. I watch it with the same detached curiosity that one might afford a man in crutches trying to maneuver the crowded New York City streets at 4:30pm on a slightly overcast day in late Fall.
Whispers tear at my throat and I know that if I were to speak my voice would be broken glass and cigarette smoke. It would carry much too far in this dense room and the harshness of the echo off of these empty walls would cause me to know things, too many things.
All I need to do is to fill everything up. To fill everything up with light.
They said to say it in 500 words. Something I couldn't do.
"fuck you" is four ninety eight too few.
Sparks fly as it comes into my mind. I wonder if it got lost at the beach. I wonder if I lost it a long time ago. I wonder if it was always supposed to be this way.
I wonder, and I sleep in songs.