the truth is, AQ, we all die.
and isn't that the entire point?
that we all die for the second and final time when we are finally forgotten?
i guess that's the entire reason i write -
i don't want the simplest things to be forgotten.
sunlight soaked into your bones,
the play of light across pool tiles underwater,
streetlamps at night when the sky is dusty and blurred,
that one song you know just a little too well
snippets of childhood that we're always afraid we no longer fit.
one day i'll be forgotten, and i guess that's alright
one day there will be nobody left who ever spoke to me
the world doesn't care for us, it keeps moving,
and some of us get lost between the wash and dry cycles
but the entire point is that i can't forget myself,
and so I'll drown myself in music
until i can tap the beats out on my knees with trembling fingers
and i have an endless litany of words
pouring from the joint where my neck and torso meet,
the aching spot between my shoulder-blades
that seeps the world in an iv drip through my bones.
i have my entire history written in stumbling blocks of verse,
penned for the new generation
or maybe just myself when it's deadlocked darkness at night
and i can't remember why i'm here or what i should have been doing
like we're all burning stars in a dying sky and sometimes it's too bright for us to be seen.