Sometimes, words come to you at two thirty in the night.
You don’t know the words yet. They hover just beyond the edge of consciousness. Half of them you want to attribute to epiphany. Half of them you know belong to a fever slowly coming down.
Words. They grow like that, sometimes.
And you find yourself leaving a comfortable bed, shrugging off a warm blanket that you suddenly can’t breathe under. And you know that it’s simultaneously too hot there, yet too cold and too empty to be lying in, all of a sudden. And the one warm body that could possibly make any of this livable is so, so far away at that moment. You can’t change that. Sometimes, he won’t even let you change it.
Bodies. They rebel like that, sometimes.
So you walk out to the porch, staying on the dark side, the one the harsh streetlight hasn’t stained golden yellow. You sit on yesterday’s newspaper that the wind threw to the floor, and you learn against the wall. You’re not sleeping, you’re wide, wide awake. The dream like quality of all this is painted deeper by the words that your heart promises will come. Sometimes they do come that way. But words are capricious, occasionally on purpose. They like to needle, to hurt a little, and watch the game play out.
Hearts. They’re much of the same. They hurt like that, sometimes.
This night’s chill is not good. My feet are wet from the dew, and I’m coughing again. Morning will be work, no more sick days left. And yet I’m loathe to leave this bare boarded surface, where the splinter is digging under my thumbnail. Boards are not meant to gripped for comfort.
But neither are nights. And the edges of this one are painted with promises, and words, and the hope of a warm body who will look at mine and smile, and his heart won’t be capricious even when mine is. And till the moon goes down and the stars fade away, this breathlessness will stay with me, because none of that might happen, but the words still might. Sometimes, they do that.
Twilight and trees, sleepless eyes and empty hearts. They come together like that, sometimes.
My heart is so full, that I may burst
At the seams of my being, but yet
I can’t kill this thirst
I walk this knife edge, veins
Alight with madness
Feverish wanderings compelling me
To gamble the dredges of sanity
Tiptoeing reality, tonight
It’s not hard to do
Speaking in the silences
I lie in the one place you’ll never be
And I watch for you
Half Past Two