Outside, in the wet streets, cold air, stiff limbs, skeleton leaves, I hear of routes to meet you.
The smell of passage, the burning tire smell of audacity, is crawling up the steps and under the door.
I’m leaving the lights on these nights. I’m drowning myself in the killer.
Light.
I’m reading fine words, and fine percentages of words I do not understand, proof of my ability to focus.
But, I set my percentages down on the arm of this oversized chair, to write my mind.
So I lose.
And I listen to the sound of ways to see you.
They are convincing, like my friends downtown. They sound slick and impoverished, and those are appealing attributes to the elite or abused.
These channels of kinetic travel, become excited with you.
They share their sentiments.
They follow their tracks to a destination.
Inside, the flattened carpet, calm space, scratched skin, skeletal mind, I hear outside, and wait.
The darkness within cannot be extinguished.
I do not leave this place.
