I was never a writer.

I: Halfsleeper

                                I fell in love, once.

A snowstorm melting from my hair - dripping cataract:
                diluted coffee. A dark room filled with language
so beautiful, I almost understood what was said.

Children are getting younger, and this land has no end,
                where do you rest your head?

All things are in a constant state of vibration,
                a harmony in the space between
                                our fingers. our hands.

                I only ever stop to listen at night:
two a.m. train rides, staring at fields as they pass my window,
touching the glass to make sure it's real – half hoping to fall through
                before being tapped on the shoulder and woken up.

                All the while, Summer is slipping away.
                                no, is gone.

 

II: I Hope You'll Pick Me Out

                "You know, cataracts are beautiful"
                                                you said,

                                "Pain is beauty."

Blurry eyed, I said I didn’t. and I don’t.

 

III: These Fires Make the World Burn Brighter

I enjoy chasing sunspots to the edges of my perception,
                they pretend to chase me back, but
I know they're just trying to make me feel better
                                while I search for you.

All I remember now is how much my fingertips stung.

                I always wondered if this was Heaven,
                                or just Atlantic City -
but there was something so poetic about not knowing,

so I choose to not know that most of my favorite stars in the sky
                                are now dead.

---

 
_{på toget i den forkerte sted.}

_{I cried the first time I ever wrote anything.
I'm still not sure it ever really happened at all.}

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