Moonchild

pollock3

 

Breathing the scent of your freshly washed hair, it goes against the melancholy that stains me. Staying up late into the early hours, the darkness outside my window comforts my fragile mind. Others are out partying and dancing to the sounds of sounds, yet I remain submerged in imagery. It would be easier to be like them, to abandon introspection and give in to the pleasures of simplicity. But it’s just not me. Romance is in my bones, yet the loneliness of a burnt out car down an unlit road holds just as much fascination. Abandoned buildings. Letters adorned with smudged signatures. Dreams of the two of us talking, you look just the same, but as the train speeds on regardless, I can’t help but notice how cold the landscape of urban hell looks. Too many forgotten lives. Too many lines around your eyes where the pain of yesterday became too much. Sex brings escape, but you can’t erase the pain that eats you inside. Others come and go, and as the sense of self decays, you become less of the girl I used to know. Hold on tight, and swim the oceans beneath your bedsheets. Let the waters take you home; let them ease your passage to a place where nothing hurts. The older I get, the longer my beard grows, and the more desensitized I become to how others feel. It matters to me, yet the visions have taken over. It’s this struggle, this battle, that can never be won. As the black crown of despair hangs heavy upon this crumbling town, dead children play in the shadows as the ones who survived puke down alleys and kiss the lipless under neon emptiness. Rooms of pictures, of photographs displaying people we once knew. Unscrew the bottle, and take a hit to let them in. The right ones, not those who don’t have the magic. Light the fireworks and swallow stars. Writing and love, a war that will never be decided.

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