the fly buzzes against the window

there is something
under the moonlight
through a copse of trees
on a winding path
near a babbling brook
as the insects
sing songs of fucking
from the thick brown bark
hidden in the shadow
that seem
to cover everything
to make you realize

there is something
about sitting
on the couch
with the lights off
an oscillating fan
finding your leg
as the sounds
of ryo hum softly
the ice cubes crackle
as fat beads
of condensation
run down the glass
to make a pool
on the coffee table

and i lay here
in this bed
staring at the ceiling
about two different truths
that are both beyond
my desire
to experience
as sleep won’t come
as the weight
of the world
makes me realize
the woods
or the couch
or the train
or the bottom
of the sea

ain’t much different
to the fly
against the window
incapable of knowing
we all
eventually die
looking out the window
at what we want
a scant
eighth of an inch
from freedom
banging our heads
on repeat
because nothing else
makes sense

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