Flash on, flash off.
Incapturable, immeasurable.
Maybe it won't be this way forever
but today, only we can see them. Just us.
Our little human secret.
White dots, bits of erasure
on a dark canvas.
Torches in the solemn night.
It doesn't matter if I pull out my camera
too late, too early.
None of it matters.
Stars, beauty only captured
by the human eye. Perhaps
the last thing to which we can say so.
Raise one last glass to that.
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.
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