in the mornings i cup petrichor in my palms, but it dispels with the morning mist
and i cross the street with my heart in my hand
is there no sanctuary for the uprooted? is there no solace for my slumber?
this lethargy hums a funeral hymn for the ghosts, sings bitter sorrow into the spines of lovers
tells me i have eternity to give for what i've taken
i take and take and take
what is nostalgic is null / nonetheless
hand in hand, i cannot scrape your existence from my flesh
with a spoon.
perhaps i'll use my fingernails next time.
the sidewalk ends just the same as last time:
but i couldn't help thinking it was longer without you by my side
asphalt stretches on and on and on into a muddy night
decaying into gravel / spittle on my wounds
ferments in my sleep i don't sleep anymore
oh, this paper town tears at my very touch
and so i wrap my limbs in gauze
call me midas / maybe / the muses still hum funeral hymns,
and the nostalgia still slides down my cheeks
the sidewalk ends.
there is no pity for the poor. no effigy where the ground kisses the sky.