i miss the paper. i miss the pen. i miss the things that inspired me then. i miss the meter. i miss the rhyme. i miss the things that pass with time. i miss the form. i miss the style. i miss the things i dared not defile. i miss the performance. i miss the review. i miss the audience. and i miss you.
I hammered out the shadows. And painted all the dreams white. I am ready for anything now. I am ready to deconstruct the night. And when i am certain that i have no breath left to keep. Then and only then will i lay down to sleep
It is never three in the morning when i dream. It is autumn, or my birthday or time to go. It is a funeral attended by my grandfather. Some old friends. And overrun by ants. It is a revelation. A reckoning. An unexpected turn of phrase that returns me to three in the morning, to awareness, and to you. And only then can i finally close my eyes and return to autumn, to a funeral. To this.
I’ve come back to the night, because it never asked me questions, because i was uncertain, because i took the medication, because i signed a contract, because there were no exceptions, because i was alone
You can find me anywhere people still dream. In a crowd. Down one street. In the margins. On the air. In the terms and conditions. Or stretched out on a blank canvas alone and waiting for inspiration to find me