Downtown. City. Streets. Empty. Beautiful. Empty. Silent. Dream. Awake. No sleep. Look out my high window. Down onto the no car no one nothing streets. Nothing but everything is possible again in silence empty streets. At last. Quiet. Beautiful.
Because the feeling. Of it. Something. Anything that is not just anything. Again. In the clear dark shadow. Grey. Like meaning. In a fortress soluble by looks sad knowing resigned. Melting hearts grow stronger. Sirens wail in the night like old records scratched skipping the part you’ve been waiting for. You can’t hear it because you hear it too deeply.
When you let it. In. Go out. There to not be you it no longer. When staring into space. Relief. Your hand. When you say I am. Released. A painting is not a drawing. This is not then speaking a word. It is seen. Like spaces surrounding you lifting you up into it all. For whatever ails you. I can be me in an instant forgotten with blessings. Like a photo graph. Shades the light too bright.
Trying to not be trying too much. Let insomnia out into the unexpected night. Grasping at straws like rehearsal. Like it’s not in the way. Like tricking the light to play darkness is broken poetry over the ceiling. And breathing is melody.