slithering in with
the marina rats.
hunkered into the dank,
shallow,
must and mold,
and the conversation
is the veil
under which
the coldest
the oldest
silence
is
buried.
words can only alleviate the space for so long.
someday we will have to get rid of the space, and fill it with the feeling that is missing when we all shut the fuck up.
until then,
job
flight
town
birthday
food
music
tattoos
bands
books
art
jokes
family
clothes
cars
and
fucking.
thank god that at least one good thing made the list.