Inside of this frazzled cage of a man, there’s a poem about your eyelashes and the halo that resides above that autumn head of yours, but I’m too lazy to write it. Perhaps I’ll leave it for tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that. It’ll get done, so don’t rush me, girl. There are so many doors, and even though you’re behind every one, I find myself lost for days on end, and it takes so long for me to get a grip of myself again. But when I do, it seems that against my best wishes, you continue to mean a great deal to me, and yet still I keep my secrets. Maybe if time stood still, I’d grab hold of your throat and kiss you with my tongue. Maybe I’d pull your hair and slide my fingers around your wrists taking you to a place where the deadlights glow. But I’m not the lover I used to be. I don’t know what I am, but it’s not that guy, and yet still I try. Still I reach out to you. The world sinks down the toilet and another generation fingers itself regardless. It’s funny. It makes me laugh, and it makes me cry. But I’m just as bad as the rest of them, and the next time I see you, the only thing that will matter is making sure you’re still just as dirty as I am. But I’ve got soul, and that’s worth something, right? And there are these words. These words that will one day cease, just the same as the beating of my tiny heart. They’re the light I have to give, and although it might not be much, it’s something, at least. As we swim with the turds, this is what keeps me from sinking without a trace. Inside this prison, there’s a vision of how the world should be, and although not many will agree, it speaks of the soul. The soul of an outsider. The soul of a drifter. The soul of someone holding onto a handful of magic that keeps slipping through their fingers like sand. But despite the passing of years and the ever-increasing darkness, there’s still some left. Each grain speaks of your name, of your smile, and it speaks of resistance. Resistance against the dying light, and against those that will never know the beauty of these precious, fleeting hours.