Don’t they break you when you’re done for in the closet that drowns you in your own heavy sighs? Drag you to the table tops, cloak you with regret, and drink you till darkness, and it may too be gone tomorrow. May everyone walk away, aching your body and bottle your hair and cradled head in suntan hands, heightening the reach that adorns the blood showered back, chest crossed with warnings and neck bound by the asphyxiating rope of rocks.
“I settle under the bridge between day and dismay,
And I don’t move.
Or I forget to be better.
What happens when it ends?
Do I remain?
Is someplace close to the ache, is it quiet there?
Everything will fall apart.
And underneath the brazen apex, what you see,
I fault and I break.”
The floor you had to walk is gone, and the loss has broken the bands of thoughts in your head, woe in lies and secrets, you won’t survive this. The final look electrifies your soul, clutching your hips with a corrugated cloth that draped the safe touch of self, and you’re quiet as the homeless eye isn’t yours anymore. Tomorrow’s another lie, no man of short hair, or the party of open land.