Waiting. Disconnected and confronted with familiar backhands, we stand divided by difference, a world distance away with nothing to say, beyond words in this state.
I can feel it coming, a forced beginning to a malicious end, my Freudian slip of the pen predicts a view I never considered.
Leave the air conditioner on until the cold front seeps through the cracks replacing the stale humidity plaguing my November.
In tune with nothing I can see in view, clocks marching out of time, running slow to fall behind, catch me here where I woke too soon, the best is alright, the best is alright when it’s all just…
Remember me five years ago, running on high towards an abstract theme? I had what I wanted and gave it up in turn for every existing encounter since then, why does it always come to this? The trappings of memory clutch tighter, I’m forced to hang on until something better comes along.
I hope it never ends, since the days of childhood we’ve kept it going. Through pain and misunderstanding, innocence and experience, we’ve kept it going.