The roads go one way, like closed questions, I just moved from London, if I drop you here is that ok, I'm weary enough to dismiss directions, no fear in scarcity, too full cut to be afraid.

Nocturnal, not how it should be. No talons, or visions, or sound rebounding against my
tantrums, no keyring on the spare key i keep losing, just like the first one, just the same.

You wouldn’t hold me, how embarrassing for me, of course you were right, still I was painfully
lonely, and so fucking tired.

Maybe I'm not anything. I put on clothes like a stranger, stringing
sentences together, waiting tables like it matters. The view is scenic, sometimes it takes my
breath away when I don’t expect it. It’s flat like cardboard on the days I drink, pints of ink,
heavier than you’d think, nobody gets as drunk as me, or as quick.

Peace, dappled heat, all this green disconnected, leaves abstract, living and doing it better than
I can, fronds of lace, nodding with closed eyes as long as I dare, if I die I don’t mind, when I
open my eyes, it is always the same.

The mayflies in the morning mist shed their skin. She got drunk and fell asleep underneath a damp tarpaulin, and she is not a morning person. Or afternoon. Or evening.

Secrets, a few, an open book, the smell of yellowing pages, the flat iron afternoon. Oppressive
and narrow and well decorated, corridors of tired boards, announcing your intentions, well you
might as well walk around screaming your own name, there can’t be much difference.

A space to work hard for, a lock on the door. Maybe I'm not nothing, there’s no way to be sure.