Sleepless: teenage scribbles

The nightflowers are dead
and anyone who thinks they know
doesn't.

Another slow awakening of this town
finds me chin in palm
on the windowsill.
It is quiet,
and the air smells of the fresh promise
that yawns in pink and pastel,
softening the jagged edges of the unhappy mountains,
but I am hopelessly thinking of you
still.
I can see your face
there in the distant stray cloud,
you mean nothing to me!
but it lingers in my mind
like the smoke lingering above my head
refusing to dissolve,
refusing to believe its short-liveness,
now scorching its way through
down to my chest.

We have nothing in common
but our fear for what might come.

I pass the cigarette on to the next dyad of fingers
and pick up the pencil,
I scribble you down
then your name in the air -
I see no hope as I am scattered in the atmosphere.
Sometimes I hate you for it
but today I am serene,
with only myself to blame
for my feelings,
my tears,
my silent vaporisation.

I leave me here
melting down to the sill.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

July 6, Baton Rouge, LA

Personal interpretation, with the aim of providing hope and comfort

Joachim The Tree