I feel like nighttime that folded into itself and became even more shadows. And how this strange night stole through my window to leave me in the dark, I just don’t know. Perhaps it started with the way you look at me? But looks only solicit on street corners like a propagandist for so long. Then your looks drift, similarly to your thoughts, across telephone poles and satellites and to another’s heart, and you softly tap the keys like you are playing a lullaby and if only you had a piano in your hand right now instead of that damned phone I could fall asleep; be content. But I can’t. You aren’t holding a piano. You might as well be holding her in your arms right now. Each time you press the “a” you are moving a lock of hair that has fallen across her eye. Every time you type a “t” you are kissing her forehead, her eyes, just for existing. I am sitting here, folding night into myself, diminishing into darkness, as you press a “y” and put your arm around her.


How does it feel to be in that position, I wonder? I have never been good at juggling. Let’s chalk it up to another thing the wind will carry all away and when the morning comes I will be all shadows and nothing, all out like a light, and gone with the breeze, and you will hardly notice I was there.



  1. That is a beautiful piece of art [the piece and the picture]

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