"Cling"

She wrote in a note she discarded upon an audience of stars embedded into the dull grey-white of the sidewalk. There is nothing to cling to anymore I guess I whispered into her ear. We kept it professional and sweet, with the promise of ran and the cold nights of the Sierras as conversation, a closing eye was lost on the privilege of a face turned away vulgarly from the sweet aroma of personal communication. There is nothing to cling to anymore. But she didn't hear it, her voice was lost on preaching the gospel of meteorology and other topics of small talk or laughing, or singing along to songs she wont let herself empathize with.

There is nothing to,
She is nothing to.


I am nothing to

Cling.

Cling.

Cling.

Forget about outpourring and downpourring, and emotion and love and memory and faithfulness or truthfulness or high definition audio and
Cling.

You are wrong

You drown in velvet.
You sing songs
with words.
And paint pictures,
with muscles and bone.
The ends of your mouth,
are the ends of the moon,
the end of the world
and the end of what I wish.
Your night is escaping,
and the sun is rising.
As a bright as a star,
but as brittle as earth.
Drink darkness.
Drink speech.
Your image bleeds
oceans.
The right shade.