in space, the atoms found their mark

somewhere far from everybody's heart

from then on, on a purge to the deep end

you persist, someone told you the answer

lies under 6 feet of sea sand.

every twist of inadequacy's blade

(each one worse than the previous)

fell in a rhythmic order, one that your silence

carried in. did you hate me?

you'd never say so. so blindly, i never changed.

sunday nights are my own.

old music in the corners of my mind

pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems

two hundred and seventy-two

little golden lights, 4 walls

that mirror my soul.