He stays up late, smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey or coffee.
Some nights he’s Bukowski; some nights he’s Neruda.
And yet the truth remains:
Every night, he’s someone that’s not existed before.
And someone that’s existed before being born.
Some nights the words pound through him
and smash into their destinations
Some nights the words flow through him
and pour into the souls who so desperately need them
Some nights the words leave him
and that’s when he is most alone.
He watches the sky,
relishes each form she presents-
whether it be grey clouds full of storm
or clear blue expanses that stretch for miles.
He is in love….
and no matter if she is filled with darkness or sunlight,
he wants to hold her in his arms
and fall asleep in her embrace.
Pieces of him were taken and given to her
and now he chases them.
He chases them even though he’s not sure if he wants any of those pieces back,
even though he knows he can never have them-
even though he never knew those stolen pieces were there-
until they were not.