When you are as lonely as this, every month smells
like a vending machine, cards in a deck, you can never come all the way back. The whole damn calendar is
soaked in her. When you are as lonely as this, noon & midnight both hold the false assumption of innocence.
There was always an object, there was always light, they
were always here the whole time you were threatening
to forgive yourself, singing very quietly, slightly off-key: surprise, surprise, she never loved you anyway. When you
are as lonely as this, there comes a point at which your only wish is to grow a little lonelier. At this point, if you
walk down the road, all you will find is the moment you didn’t look back. The moment when she would have killed
or lived for you & you kept walking anyway. Such a
pointless & brutal landscape as love deserves a song like
that. Make up a new month, decorate it with more angels or less mouths. Go away for a long time & try hard as you
can to forget the smell of her skin, wreathed into ball-
point pens, the screen door never fully closed. Something
in the dark owes you for the time you’ve made up, a debt
you will never collect, a consolation prize. Without her,
it’s a miracle how things never seem to collide into other things. It’s a miracle how quiet this place remains.