Cacophonies, Constellations, and Cigarette Butts like Stars #6

When did the world become a great mess of handwriting,

When did we no longer shout out our hate but instead

Wrote it down on scraps of paper?

Maybe because it hurts more to know that

You used an old napkin to tell me sweet nothings

Rather than the same voice that used to silence the night

And play amongst the stars;

That used to direct me through my own irony

And breathe in the mercury of my mind.

Maybe because it’s better to have my last glimpse of half-happiness

From the glimmer of your swirling r’s and hardly legible t’s;

Maybe it’s because I need to reread your reasons for falling down

More than I need to remember your reasons for trying to stand.

Either way-

You’re still losing yourself in wide bags of white dust

That disintegrate your precious mind.

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