#1495

it is a loss like religion and nowhere to go on Sunday mornings, a book gathering dust on the bedside table, all meaning wrung out of the old songs until the chords are dry and wrinkled but I’m still so thirsty, a vessel waiting to be filled, and the voice that was once clear as a bell has fallen so silent I can hear the seconds ticking by which I shall never regain, the heartbeats I can’t spare, and nothing feels immortal now, not even gods

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