stop
she's the audience he's most unsure of. eyes following action, their words are lost in the distance. distorted. what i meant wasn't what you heard, the words are still a tight fist in my mind.
none of the shadows part way to allow the light illumination. their faces are obscured, lost. just like each glance and the half forgotten applause from other times and places.
this classic is the only thing that holds us together. a word, lost in a sea of similar words. it slips over the tongue easily and into an existence that is uncertain and full of fear. somewhere along the way is a lifeline but the chances of finding it are so fucking slim at given moments in time that it is just like being alone. me and you, standing alone.
the barber holds the knife and in the mirror the reflection shifts into something no one can recognize but the twisted guts inside. familiarity is a stranger and a stranger is familiarity and this vision will never leave entirely and he'll never forget what's here and who could be instead. the pictures always change but the remnants of them remain.
the bench was littered with leaves and left over wrappers. no people stayed in sight, the lonely vigil kept by surrounding trees and moonlight casting down more shadows than light. or maybe they're eating up the light. who knows.
mango me this. mango me that. we'll have a tango in the dark and finger the walls while sidestepping the next bus, rolling forward like a train, crashing like thoughts in the dark. heavy now, lost again.