Five-Day-Old PaintMature

We lay in bed,

that broken nail on your pinkie


down the back of my shoulder.

White carpet stained with coffee and cigarettes.

Five day old paint covering six day old plaster over a seven day old hole in the wall.

Angry then, we laugh now,

and reminisce....


Remember those times we yelled at pedestrians out of my piece-of-shit chevy?

Black tie, white shirt, black pants, we screamed "Mormon!"

and they were left to the sound of asphalt turning,

red light fading in the dark.


That somber winter sun setting on the horizon, reflecting off our mirror

into your golden eyes

I've seen those eyes,

I've seen them laugh,

I've seen them cry,

I've seen them nearly die,

I've seen them angry,

I've seen them one inch away from me,

I've seen them hold me


I've seen them save me


The sun blinks out, and night creeps in, and with it

the sounds of jubilation - divine retribution - for a broken and empty day.

Made soluble by the the scattered light of streetlights and neon toys.


Recognition glows - I can watch the wheels turn

You smile.

"Let's go" you say, and that soft voice turns something in me,

and I am your loyal dog.

That soft voice, bare touch of tear from that weeknight ago.


To switch so fast, to hurt, to cry, to love, to laugh,

to burn so brightly for such a short time.

To recognize we are but a shooting star,

immeasurably small in the workings of the world,

and yet still given this gift, each heartbeat strong, finding itself yet closer to

the final drop of the drummer's beat.

And yet compelled to rush forward as blazenly and as boldly and as strongly

as never before,

to never back down, to fight for that which must by duly ours by 

right of existence alone.

We need to live. We need to feel.

We need to discover.


We walk outside.



The End

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