At 2 in the morning I’m never quite sure of what I’m doing anymore or what this is except that it feels a little like madness and I’m hell-bent on creating.
But it does not/will not/cannot replace the voltage I feel at 5 in the morning when I’m inching along and it suddenly dawns upon you: this fits. Collapse in tired happiness and make poetry out of it in the morning. (Hearts handing out little paper milk cartons that read MISSING.)
In the cosmic blink of an eye we will be gone; in the cosmic flutter of a lash we’ll fall in love. With definitions and coppery fingers–with catchy songs and awful hope. With deviant eyes and dreaming awake. With rain and shadows that you skip-skip-skip through because you’re too busy dreaming in hollowness.