chuchoter

like the sponges sitting soaked in the remnants

of last night’s leftovers, an opened beer never finished

and the dirty water of a half-assed follow through

should I be surprised it’s not yet time to be over you?

Like the full moon, hanging so heavy drowned in a backdrop

of midnight, an infinitely empty universe

as dark as you wanna be

but still holding all the light of every sun in this world.

Causing Orion to wink at me through curtains

colored by philosophical questions, stale pizza

and the box of Lincoln logs that comes off the shelf

when a retreating is necessary.

And while the blinking on the blank screen

 is a most bothersome reminder

of everything started and never finished,

a repetitive pressing of keys is all the answer I ever find

when engulfed in similarity of that universe

by melody of that which I fail endlessly to convey,

an untranslatable verse.