Untitled #44

It’s a drive without the radio on,

in a car with no breaks,

ignoring all stop signs.

You walk at an uncomfortable pace,

confuse a stranger with yourbest friend on the subway,

sit in silence kind of night.

The kind of night that makes the cold

a call for bed, not people,

a call for a flashback of a

moment you never experienced.

The kind of silence that makes cigarettes just visible empty breaths

and heavy sighs even more weighted,

the kind of feeling that gives weight

and feeling to nothing,

a nothingness so vast

and vivid

you can't look twice,that feels like caving in,

where you pour alcohol

in the fracturesinstead of cement,

where the moonlight

is hidden behind

dusty clouds,where the spinning earthmakes you motion sick,

where you find yourself

in the odd numbered chapters

of a foreign novel

found in your Russian neighbor's basement.

 

V.L.