Left alone with a tilting room, trying my damnedest to remain true. The night, she's waning, a few soft hours left before we both fade into the shades of day. The wet streets outside the door seem so alien to me; these same stained streets that ate the rubber off of my soles not so many months before have lost their familiarity.
I live my life with a taut heart, tensing to spring to my feet and leave nothing behind save the echo of my souls slapping pavement. I could disappear as easily as I was born, and none would be the wiser. I could make my arms into a cradle for my aching skull, but it would be a waste of flesh and bone. You offer a pillow to a head that is already dry and rattling, like a gourd stuffed with loose change, guitar picks, and muscle relaxers.
Have I a home to which I long to return, or have I lost my footing on the black beaches and cold cliffs of my dreams in utero? If I find my bridges offered to the stomach of the night as a crumbling mess of burnt offerings, will I gather splinter and sap to build them anew, or will I relegate myself to the churning river below, a plummet as perpetual and graceful as the ballet of starlight lightyears through the gentle abyss of space? Answers I expect yet never find in noontime certainty.
I will carve my own answers in stone, bury them deep in the tomb of the earth, and hope that my tender fingers will someday find the strength to claw through to the sorrowful honest depths, and I hope that my calloused eyes will find blind new ways to refract the sunlight through their lenses of ice so that the ancient words will reveal what my stuttering heart has been trying to tell me all along.
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