12:53

12:28 a.m. 

One hope sleeps across the city. Dangerous ground calling me. I stay back, masked in the shadows. 

I gather moons to shed light on Him. Pathos gathers inside enough to swallow. He never asks. I cannot speak anyway.

“Collect my spirit in seven different sections,” to myself, I think. The moon never moves out of rhythm, yet here we are, water, ebbing against nature.

12:37 a.m. 

I’m still here. Same place, same time. I carry jazz in my hands, wishing for danger to come back. Make me afraid. 

He moves like molasses. He speaks in tongue and I pray for resurrection. The Earth has stopped moving. Air does not exist. I know nothing. 

The elements cannot change him. He stands acrylic. Centered for discerning eyes and, oh, the places. 

Life comes to Life. 

12:42 a.m. 

The city is restless. I hear Him breathe for eternity. Azurite sparkling in deserted winter. Ice breaks the noise. We slip into existence without heart, without home, without a chance at spring. 

Cherry blossoms will come for those eyes to greet them. And He may be there, running His fingers through love, waiting for a chance to paint His canvas wild, 

while I rely on mercury to settle deep into my eyes. It’s too cold to cry. 

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