It’s not ever seen.
Physically, anyway.
The way the moonlight slices across a face. Highlighting the floor. Jagged edges. Hardened lines. Night is dark and harsh. The wickedest things happen. The darkest things occur. The torrid affairs and weakened thoughts.
How many days have I had these ideas. How many nights must pass before the moon crashes into the sea, thrusting the planet into a watery grave held together by its own gravity swell.
The things I think.
The places to go and people to meet. None of it matters. Held in the shadow of time. Inaction is my warden and my body is my prison.
I know. As I sit. And hear the cars, distant I’m afraid. I know it. I don’t belong. Not in this plane, not this time, not this century: not at all. I am wrong. I can sense it in my hands. They vibrate differently. My soul aches at an altered frequency.
Every breath I take is stolen from another.
No comments:
Post a Comment