I’ll make it perhaps

The light in here is bad

The shadows hang their heads

I’m tired of this playlist

I’m tired of this bed

In sheets that are not mine

Busted strings don’t pass the time

The shadows hang their heads

In light of what they find

Am I really headed backwards?

Static fills my head

Am I really headed back there

Like I’m the walking dead

So I light the wick

And turn the page

Familiar is this pain

The light in here is fine

The shadows are just that

Perhaps I’m feeling better

Perhaps I’m coming back

Always and forever

Never fine

But

I’ll make it perhaps

alone and warm and aware

The sun is warm on my face

grey shadow upon wood grain

stuck somewhere between

sympathy and harmony

with the universe

and where a headache should be

there is none

and where a heart should be

there is stone

and where I should be

there is shadow

alone and warm and aware

cast too across wood grain with

the closing doors of another work shift.

heroine and Burroughs

Watch your soul.

I’d say tongue but I don’t harbor
the arrogance I once spewed.

Give me a break, like I dealt it
in cards, knowing you’d take the Ace.

I am only human, I have no other excuse.

I was scared of losing, most of all I was terrified that I could choose.

Does it feel good to see through me
like spotted glass, knowing your
windows are clean?

And why do I bother to even ask? It’s not you who hold the answer, I can see, it’s I who has stood
idle, waiting to turn the key.

So if you’re looking through the peephole, please don’t make a sound.

I can see your shadow quiver, mine quivers there too.

But I can’t turn that key with a lock full of gum.

Another way out then, ah, hum — there’s a pauper selling candy, eating pizza on 68th next to Sole — so I’m pretty sure we’ll meet again, like heroine and Burroughs.