the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Monday, December 4, 2017

The Hill

These words always find a way to you
The way this morning brushes between the threads of your thin curtains
The way the city groans as it rolls out of bed
The way I find my rest stiff-pressed atop your sheets

A guest to the normalcy
With a name tag that reads anything but.
I was a friendly ghost in an open cage,
Living out of these years turning a blank page

A loose pen clenched between my teeth
Had let two cabs excuse the blues of the city
That poured in its night as I pored over its light
And counted the embers as the fog rolled in

These words always find a way to you
Pressed firmly between the hardcovers of time,
Stained in equal parts mint tea and wine,
Left somewhere in this room that’s neither yours nor mine.
Singing in harmony, forgetting our parts
Sitting in series, and running apart.