There’s no point in writing here, because I’ll erase it all anyway. Sometimes you can’t write anything. Sometimes there aren’t words. Sometimes there are words, but ones you don’t want to admit to, ones that you don’t want to come back to and have to face when tomorrow is bright and harsh and new. Sometimes there are no words and so you just sit alone and listen to the same song on repeat, because sometimes the song feels like your heart beating and your blood pumping and if you turn it off and go to silence then you might stop completely and just cease to exist, or have to be the person you are, and somehow that’s the most terrifying possibility. Sometimes you just sit alone and listen to the same song on repeat and stare down the long, dark hall of memory and refuse to think about the empty bed downstairs and refuse to accept the choking weight of tears and refuse to give in yet and so by the light of one last lamp and the theme of one last refrain you pace the floor in countless steps and then with nothing left you douse the light and slowly undress in the dark and climb beneath the cold covers and pretend time doesn’t pass and bring tomorrow to wake you early and alone and empty to live another entire day.

Sometimes you can’t do anything but go to sleep and pretend tomorrow won’t come, so that’s what you do.

(I just don’t want to count the days.)

There are times that walk from you
like some passing afternoon.

There are things that drift away
like our endless, numbered days.

There are sailing ships that pass
all our bodies in the grass.

There are things we can’t recall
blind as night that finds us all.

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