Just about now, there are six billion people pining, after something. After all, they are staring at their own mirror image, saying “I’m not done, I’m almost done”. I’ve left you with an empty message, and you never asked me why. So, one million days seem like a second when the insignificance of the earth is measured against your complicit gestures of love. How alluring is this thought, where you can steal the earth’s decay and turn it into truths? How are there ways to exhume these deplorable acts? There are none, there will be none. I’m in a park, late at night, sitting on the bench where basket ballers sit, but I am all alone. The breeze blow southward and I take a long deep sigh. Behind me, were my futures, tucked in a corner of a playground slide. We were talking about a girl I was afraid to love, while my soul on the basketball bench remains incandescent, remains as forgetting. I take my time listing each detail, the name of ants crawling up a blade of grass. And then there was this song, I remember it was bright and her walls were red and blue. Along the lines of her back, I see the rise and fall of her desperation swings, her skin against my neck. So we push along the words, we fall into each syllable, follow each cadence into this very moment.

Beach houses along the periphery of her heart. Planting each foray, into contentious seeds, they bleed on the words you had set for me. They have gone, into the sea of loss. With the beat of her tiny pulses, they collide against the current. It’s time for bed, my dear. It’s time to rest your thoughts, put them to bed. One more song. Just one more song, she said. 


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