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What are you waiting for?
Woke to an end of days sun.
Burnt through the clouds like
A cigarette carelessly dropped on the couch.
His disappointment lingering tart on a tongue too scorched by smoke for soothing.
Eyes mirroring the sky in perfect, sullen discontent.
We're both sick of winter.
And
Maybe, I think, the sun may grow tired of being the burning phoenix of the sky.
All alone.
Maybe,
That's why it hides in grey, worn blankets of denial.
It's hard to stay bright with noone by your side.
I've rubbed my nose nervously til the tip came off.
Well, the skin.
Regarded my reflection vacantly
as the blood welled and dripped.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Stuck toilet paper to it,
added extra eye makeup.
I'm all about quick fixes.
I'm a big mess.
The taller I try to stand,
the further I inevitably fall.
Frenetic energy fueld by too much caffeine and a fear of falling asleep.
Of falling.
Like a star.
Like the sun must sometimes long to do.
On days like today.
When I'm walking to the bus stop,
shunned and bloodied.
Sipping coffee from a steel thermos.
Under an end of days sun.
