Running, running, amusement park turning
Turning, if not for the yearning
Of learning that what you want
You can’t have.
It’s okay.
Cry on the page, it’ll blend with the paint
And, if you must, paint his face again
You’ve been doing it longer than you remember
In your dreams, when your hands are free of your brain
Mindless muscle twitching
Painting a face you remember too well
Too vivid to be that long ago
Was it really that long ago?
Yesterday?
Day before?
Cry, scream, listen to your music too loud
Kill more hearing cells and stifle more distant thoughts
Noise, noise, fades into white noise
Into tides
Into whispers
Into smoke
Into air
Into the thin, pale, silvery substance
That you try and grab onto because if you do you know you’ll
Float off into the night.
So you jump
And you fall
And you open your eyes
And look at the moon
And you think,
“If only life were like that,
Spinning stories thin as gossamer
Floating to some wanton ears in the night.”
But then you go back to sleep and think,
“Even if they did,
Who would listen?”