It has always been
disastrous, this
feeling of impending–

tonight I lie here
howling, claws
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.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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0 Responses to Waiting

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    Ah Jones. Why is it that every word you say makes so much sense to me?

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