No sun just my empty shoes, a shadow dangling against the sky beating black. And my feet harmonious with the oily street while the stars seem to step from me and the lights look away– your windows. But I am a part of this, my dirty feet are a part of me and a part of you.
Marcus tried to pave a day without flaw, but as soon as he finished his toast, he noticed the sun did not come up. Nor were there stars, nor was there a street below. The plans were gone as the dark stretched through the panes and felt his room.
I admit, if you peek inside my little heart, you will find my previous loves. You will find their small wanderings, their fruitless hands, and the bickering eyes they share as they circle round in little red rooms.
But they have to stay, they know this. Each meaningful face the heart steals. They can only shake their heads at each other, and sling their regrets over tea, wishing they never brought their wanderings into my heart.
Where is the past? Is it in the corners of a closet conspiring with some web? Is it hiding in my slipper, smiling with sharp surprise? Maybe we could take the freeway to meet its shore shining with seaweed and shrapnel. Yet, you want to stay couched to the present. But the present doesn’t want us. The moment is a shrug. Suddenly we find ourselves contained to a dimming closet next to the saddest slipper and some empty web.
Looking at me: handsomely placed near lesser stones, where the remainders of my soul can hear the ignorant moans of morning’s traffic. However, even death makes it hard to complain; my voice, my lies seem to belong more to dust above than to me.