sometimes i'm a crafter of silence
sometimes the only thing i'm making
is my breath
sometimes my heart aches
sometimes my heart is aching.
there's not a colour to paint the night
the white and the black of the moon, maybe
i drive the streets of my hometown past midnight, wondering of
you, and the somewhere between here and there.
as i shift through first second third
and i let some strange calm
sink right into the marrow of my bones.
i own myself in the way that
i'm proud of the breaths i've made
i own myself, but
i imagine your hands on my shoulders.
the part i hate is the way
i'm here to be shocked out of my own heart
by a half-second
of electricity in your eyes and my eyes and