In quiet rooms we find ourselves, the morning creeping through the windows. There are shadows, in the nooks and crannies. And bodies, asleep; we were walking the night before, long and drawn out. The skies were errie then, but somehow, we dealt with it–laying on the wet grass, staring up at black leaves and strange clouds. We were tired.
I was up before you, seeing.
The introspective and the self-aware. The ones who know change and write it, who write change and know it. But we are writing nothing, or at least I am. Because these words catch in our throats, caught like leaves falling matted to the streets beneath skies threatening rain (The clouds are the most beautiful on gray and stormy days where we linger, taking deep breaths and settling ourselves in the bluish-hue of day).
We walked over those leaves, becoming aware; we are always aware, holding hands in the streets as cars pass by.
Tonight’s good for that.
It’s breathless, and husky, and lush. Thick with billowing warm air. If this were October, it’d be cold, but it’s not. So tonight’s warm and the air is October-weather breaking, wanting. You could feel where the cold would come from, but it’s not there, and I’m just lost for ideas, wandering beneath it.
Over brick and concrete, my feet pass as cars do–warm and blowing; I let slip those words I keep bottled up inside, trying to impress you as we laid grasping dark.
I’m not sure I did, if nothing, set myself apart.
I may be the same, or more ordinary than I know. But I’m thoughtful, and considering. The wind’s blowing.
My intentions are…
And I’m walking up stairs.
and praying for avoidance.
The rest of the nation is numb to our crest-falling hearts and the stopping of déjà vu in our hearts and throats; we remember while they forget.
…It’s not convenience that’s made us this way
I wear gray.
And tell you the answers through parted lips, sifting through secrets like they were nights in summer–long and drawn out; hot, sticky with sweat, and memorable.
After we had passed each other, I was walking along the avenue chasing your shadow.
…we searched our lips for.
I told you it’d be something like that.
We were fate, and you were left wanting; forgetting in the nights spent with music like clicking clocks and passing cars. My fingers passed over the fabric of cotton and linen, breathing the quiet air and stillness of forthcoming forgetting.
We’ll pack and wake up in the morning, early.
Jet planes always leave loudly and too late to stop the bleeding, our hearts breaking through glass at a country we’re forced to leave behind–as our age soon will be, we are gone.
And there is nothing but rubble and vespers, memories, to remember we were there.
and we’ll scream these words at the top of our lungs until we can’t anymore.
there’s not much else to say.
…and we’ll prophesy, even if we’re not sure at all.
the last thing we want is to not know. then, it’s as if everything we’ve done and everything we’re working for is for nought. there is nothing scarier, that knowing nothing. except for knowing everything–then we’d have to face the future with absolute certainty and without change. there would be no “what if” and no “what could be”, there would only be, with infallible and absolute certainty, what is. and the knowledge that no matter what we did, that would be what comes. there is nothing more tragic than knowing for sure, always.
god, this is breathing easy for a while. yet, leaving in the sunrise seems so pressing.
maybe i’ll breathe easier when i get back.