clandestine walkways

parted lips
spilling secret
of white walls
aching fingers
ticking clocks
tainted calendars
and bruised sheets.
the days wash over us
one step closer
one day further

she traces the
rounded edges of
a sore calendar
a frozen clock that
nibbles at the seconds
the minutes fall away
numb and senseless
she walks a
hundred miles
licks the rust
from an ancient
heart that whispers
blue songs
under a striated moon

it’s not thursday night,
but it feels like it.
you’re not here to talk to,
but you should be.
there are coiled cables,
spools of wire that kiss
the edges of moistened layers
cavernous passageways
that scream in silence.
i want to go back
to striped sheets
late nights
burnt bicycle tires
vacant lots
roaming fingers
rumbling beats
warm saline that fell
from whimpering eye lids
a rugged heart
two spent souls
twisting and twining
in the echoes of
desolate train tracks

i speak in silent notes
filling up this house
with the clamor of a 
bubbling fish tank
on a lonely counter top
the dribbling drone
that tastes the lonely air
whispering softly
it’ll be alright,
just 7 more days.

everything is done in reactive stages
fleeting moments that steal your attention
missing a high school football game
the friend who really wasn’t a friend at all
twisting knots in your stomach at the dinner table
even when your mother told you not to worry about it
failing a test that life will only ever present you with once
a minuscule assessment of what you learned in
AP biology or tenth grade english, college physics or..math.
the first cliche broken heart that spits on your hands
and makes you endure the rest of a rugged november alone.
but if there ever was an anything in that dark hole of everythings
that didn’t revolve around a time frame of short lived instances
that meant virtually nothing at all once those moments were up
then i would wish it to be time spent with her
the dangers of getting caught wrapped up in striped sheets
that have since faded to solid color, blurring our memory
into the threads that make your bed ours, the same new mattress
that will be old by the time we take our honeymoon
to hawaii maybe or some place that doesn’t count those
minuscule moments of our lives, a place that doesn’t put
our love for each other or our overwhelming ratio of femininity before us.
let her be the one thing that stays when all the rest falls away.