Wet pavement nights are perfect to close a suitcase and leave.
Pack your brightest lines, stuff your heavy cares, written works folded under a pair of blindfolds.
Plenty of restraint as well, all you can you bear then turn every light off.
We’re done here. We are done here.
Just for a little while become an island, just for a little while.
Why come back? Is anything important here?
//
Shouldn’t be thinking about it, but when did I ever see the real you?
Shouldn’t give this another thought, but when could I ever call you mine?
Here, but might as well be a couple of planets down.
I feel foolish, putting material yearly on these lines.
Dreaming of empty emptiness, writing for busywork.
Should have kept focus above, above, above.
Who did I think I was? The difference?
Humbled immediately, humbled until I saw the sea, expectations floating underneath way out of reach.
Who did I think I was?
