(no subject)
He told me to write about the draw to darkness that he feels.
Drops on the windshield and the world smears past, quiet. The radio’s on, but we don’t listen, because it’s ten o’clock and this is when the true things sneak in under the gossip and smirks.
In the sunlight, we’re kids, students with secrets we’ll sell and friends we won’t. It’s he-said-she-said and who slept with whom. Outrage and impatience.
But here, in the dark, the stoplights turned to lines because he doesn’t want the wipers on, we are dry and the world is flooded. Everything is lost. Nothing holds more loyalty than us.
Then we can say, “This is what she is,” and find her core. Then we can find ourselves, the underneath parts, what we might write in letters for after we’re dead. Then we can say, “We know ourselves,” and, “I know you.”
When we don’t.
Drops on the windshield and the world smears past, quiet. The radio’s on, but we don’t listen, because it’s ten o’clock and this is when the true things sneak in under the gossip and smirks.
In the sunlight, we’re kids, students with secrets we’ll sell and friends we won’t. It’s he-said-she-said and who slept with whom. Outrage and impatience.
But here, in the dark, the stoplights turned to lines because he doesn’t want the wipers on, we are dry and the world is flooded. Everything is lost. Nothing holds more loyalty than us.
Then we can say, “This is what she is,” and find her core. Then we can find ourselves, the underneath parts, what we might write in letters for after we’re dead. Then we can say, “We know ourselves,” and, “I know you.”
When we don’t.