Too conscious of the quiet;
the night robbed all the blue
from the sky
with narrowed eyes,
painting the curves,
tracing the shape of my desire
with a single stroke, I feel victim.
So much is revealed by the heavy black,
back alleyways to secret adventures,
so much silence lie contorted,
with only the night air for nostalgia.
Perhaps, in time, I will be rewarded
for thinking of you.
I will be celebrated for the writings
documenting Parisian dreams, or
of the early hours in which I spend questioning
everything you have ever said.
In time, perhaps I will reap atonement
for losing sleep and seeking somnolence,
or I’ll acquire the fortitude to finally
stop sorting through our soundtracks
perhaps i will,
but not from you
Shot out my boy Thug Nasty, always supporting the movement.