number two

"324"

sitting on a plane from Chicago to Boston, these thoughts popped into my head. i wrote them down:

letters written, never sent.
a lonely walk over bridges.

next to rivers

stealing glances
at the paths i didn't choose.
stealing seconds
from the youth and heartbreak's tears.

god.

i think.

i cry.

i stop sometimes.

but it's past the point where prose can pull me towards the pinnacle of some forgotten lover's lullaby.
and some of it makes sense...
but some dollars are too ripped and tattered to buy a single moment of peace and quiet in a place that was once just a beautiful silence.

where am i going?

where the fuck did I come from?

goodnight.
or good morning - i guess that's the next choice I'll be forced by convention to make.
and to think: i actually spent these precious seconds writing down nothing

and everything all at once, like the broken world we inhabit, tries to make cents.