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
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.