with black on gray.

you are.
thundercloud. operas
beating bass in troubled chords
like water filling cracks
just begging the salt
to set you free.

when ink pours from open wounds.
and your lips beat bad
better than forced rhyme without
a single shred of reason. and your arms
they're tidal waves.
almost. poetic
so I'd listen intently.
because the answer is always in the break.
and words are spraying in muffled colors.
something short of meeting
heart murmers.
with the intent of inviting a purpose.
while I watched your tongue
unwind in a way that was meant
for letters.


and your fingers were like charcoal.
when you left your mark
on everything you touched.
and I sat
and I drank
and I pretended that you would never
fall out of love.
with understanding- and searching
for the answer to every question
that your mind could create.
so there-
with your hands leaving spots of gray.
you looked tarnished.
something like. old folk tales

and hope.

so I stood before you
a broken man looking for someone to say
being a dreamer, man.
it ain't so bad.
but I'm steady walking train rails.
with arms outstretched- as if my bones were hollow.
and I could drink heartache
from darkened clouds.
with you-

and your fingers. painting the sky
with no purpose.
just presence.