Isn't it exhausting, love?
Living in between somber eyelifts to time stamps. The threads of opinions, the glazed logos
travelling past our eyeballs, we barely see it anymore.
The wasteful scrolling, the unrelenting thumb taps, the tasteless reasons for relaxation.
The matted hair the never made weekend bed, the watching morning break through thin
curtains, the seeing the searing sunup and simmering sundown without the sexy hint of
summer, in winter, it's a drag dawn to dusk,
Barely lifting lazy hunch over a bottle of wine at the edge of your bed. the defeat in the
morning that comes before we even punch in, the twirl of our wrist from one platform to the
the late eating, the constant eating, the munchies, the not eating, the diet, the chocolate, for
God's sakes, the chocolate. It's the restless nature of this individual, aimless. It's the artist
breaking pencils like dents in our fingers weren't formed from it, it's the not learning from
past brushstrokes - it's the not believing in the arch of the hand, the stiffness in the index, the
softness of the palm, the landing of the paint, it's the not having a point they begin to end. It's
the not having much to be exhausted by.
But for the honour of the pen, to lay some truth on the mic, we're honestly not scared. We're
not scared of the absence of light in our eyes. Just fearful of how attractive the dark is, how
our pupils can scan it like a home, moving around furnished thoughts. Don't worry about the
springs in our steps, or our toes cutting edge, we know, at least, how boxes work.
We are relearning it's scale in whatever note it pitches in Black.
And my, my, we darken comfortably.
So, exhausted, here we rest.
Like a wolf yet to return from resurrecting power.