the fly buzzes against the window

there is something
about
walking
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
gently
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
unimportant
unseen

and i lay here
in this bed
alone
staring at the ceiling
writing
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
buzzing
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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s