It sounds like this.
And now it looks like that.
I'm writing like everyone else these days.
Maybe my truth isn't all freedom and love and slightly bad days giving way to rainbows and lilies.
Maybe I am owned. Distorted.
Falling through the crashes.
I delete what is real and put forth what is almost there.
Black butterfly / the grill of my car / love unto death
I moved the books from the nightstand to the shelf. Yesterday that didn't change a thing, but today is today. The movement is a mere conduit of everyone trying to do the right thing.
Choosing the unused side of the bed for now until maybe finally very soon I will wrap certain texts from the shelf in that blue satin ribbon cut from the dress that she said looked so beautiful on me and place the whole bundle in the locked box in the back of the closet under that pair of sexy shoes that kill my back.
Maybe if I can't write the real thing I can at least say that.