We get by with our hands tied,
minding our own business,
isn't this just forgiveness:
for getting out of the one-track,
behind which we find ourselves hiding?
It's kinda the same: blaming ourselves
for this friction fit, kinda listening,
prickled skin-style relationship.
I could not ignite a fire with the things I love,
though the empty spaces they leave can fuel one.
My dreams are combustible now,
thoughts like kindling.
The moths don't care, but the clock does:
the flames lick my fingertips
but the hands just tick.
I can only look up.
The lights flicker in the sky and at my heels.
I don't look back, but I know my footprints to be ash.
I feed the beast, and I no longer feel alone.