It has always been
disastrous, this
feeling of impending–
tonight I lie here
howling, claws
extended,
raking through the black,
reaching for the light.
I never know
what’s coming;
I never can
get the best of it,
the way you seem to
get the best of me,
every time.
Circling back,
I come around,
I come to you,
I ache for you,
this breakable, broken, unspoken hope–
it holds its breath
alongside me.
Ah Jones. Why is it that every word you say makes so much sense to me?
Words are ours, Lewin. To create worlds.
Yes, and thank goodness for it. You are on such an insane roll of greatness. I wish I could write this frequently and this well.
You’ve got the ‘well’ down, Lewin. ‘Frequently’ is a combination of ‘odd luck’ and ‘determination’. I have ground up my demons and turned them into fuel. Since they’ve grown more frequent, I’ve decided it’s open season.
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