I promise to stop throwing rocks at the windows. The glass always shatters, a harmful crescendo. It’s sinful to pretend that life won’t end.

So I read some things from six years back, when I wished for death and got off track, but at least where I stand isn’t quicksand.

Flat circle, time works its way in.

We think that it’s over before it has a chance to begin.

How do I look from the outside? Are the shadows much brighter than all of my midnights? How do I keep myself down? My voice won’t make a sound. Should I leap off the ground?

I still have love for those to whom I’ll never speak. My bones are as worn and my outlook as bleak as the empty space next to me in the passenger seat. But I can’t show you that your mind is fully closed and even though I’m tearing down some walls you’re building them in rows. I tried to find the single key to open up the door around your heart, around your mind, around the locket on the floor.

I promise to stop throwing rocks at the window. The glass always shatters, a harmful crescendo. It’s sinful to pretend that life won’t end. So I read some things from six years back. When I wished for death and got off track, but at least where I stand isn’t quicksand.

Wave a hand. Say a last goodbye.

Wrapped up in your linen sheets, the wool over my eyes.

Contemplating where I went or why I went away will never lead to what you seek or what you wanted me to say.

Make your subtle moves based on the footprints on the floor, but when the bottom drops I’m all that’s lost and what was is no more.