I walked slower today with the kind of thoughts I didn't want falling in the streets, and spun my keys around fingers that still play bomb-trip melodies we both can hear if silence wasn't such a crime.... 1, 2, 4, 3, 1... cracks in the street; an identical trait of thoughtwalkers.
I continued at the pace of a slower ballad about a tangled string of lights that hang from corner to corner...zig-zagged across the wide open corridoor where if the walls could speak they would repeat the symphony of another life... my skies were clear but her rain was falling. With each turn above the concrete I carry my regards for a past I haven't yet recalled. But it burns inside the pavement, where hell once tried swallowing me whole. I wait for the water to turn hot and watch for the symbol of her name that flashes across the palm of my hand before I disappear in the foggy mirror. I didn't know how wisdom has been gradually writing itself on a revolving door made of Her script...
One day the lights burned out, and the words bled out in the moment that my closure then served as another's grave. Whether letting go was easy, or whether it set me free I don't care anymore,
I was never a fucking throw away.
May it all rest in peace... as it is here that lies the Dead, where the dead tried to bury me.