Only the moon watches, its gaze sickly and taut with the jealously of one million breathless years. Only the moon knows the shallow breaths and the the shoveled tongue, the words that burned the forests of your heart bitter and black. A there are thousands of miles scratching at your skin, the journeys taken and the ones left in ruins behind your mind. The sky is awash with street lights and traffic and gas stations that never close, satellites and airplanes and the endless stare of that cold bloated moon.
The years have worn away even the least patina, the years have shed even the mask of human charms. All your love affairs end with other people's romances, letters tattered remnants of promises you would never keep. A rusted cough arises, some dark chatter buried in your depths. The night wears thin, with nothing but traffic and television, a flickering bulb and a poorly written book. Only the strays call, now that you no longer feed them. Only mossy habits, groaning from their tempered graves.
Every door is locked, every phone goes straight to voice mail, every welcome tattered carelessly long ago. Days go by, months and seasons tangle, the rhythm of life tripping over the laces that never hold anything in place. Few choices, no answers, just a dead and shining rock that floods the horizon. Ghosts of heart aches wander through the dull husk of your skull, rattling their rusty old chains. The empty hours descend and feed upon your weary blood. Only that moon, and a clock that can't keep time to itself.
The years have worn away even the least patina, the years have shed even the mask of human charms. All your love affairs end with other people's romances, letters tattered remnants of promises you would never keep. A rusted cough arises, some dark chatter buried in your depths. The night wears thin, with nothing but traffic and television, a flickering bulb and a poorly written book. Only the strays call, now that you no longer feed them. Only mossy habits, groaning from their tempered graves.
Every door is locked, every phone goes straight to voice mail, every welcome tattered carelessly long ago. Days go by, months and seasons tangle, the rhythm of life tripping over the laces that never hold anything in place. Few choices, no answers, just a dead and shining rock that floods the horizon. Ghosts of heart aches wander through the dull husk of your skull, rattling their rusty old chains. The empty hours descend and feed upon your weary blood. Only that moon, and a clock that can't keep time to itself.