McQueen

The night calls no obstace to invisible suns, chiming red shoes, or the smile that gives away my intentions to anyone, if indeed anyone were here with me at all. This place I slumber between playgrounds and my own private Île du Diable.

Here I lie, measuring my days with coffee spoons, spending the moments like change inbetween the hunt for deep blue pappion and the tearing open of messages sent to me in bottles on the water.

Slave to the tides
                   tied to a string

Everything a reminder, nothing escapes the flax. From the quiet of the nights all alone to the second-guessing of whispers deep in the dark, spun around like whirlpool by ceiling fan blades above my head, like the eyes of an airplane slowly headed straight down.

I have escaped the solitary confinement of couch cushions only to find myself here, wondering if I could have decided this any differently, tried something harder, or grown the fuck up instead of holding my breath and stamping my feet.

These nights will come, I know. Just as I know that these nights are of my own making. This place has a door, and that door has a key. A key that fits easily in my palm, needing only to be turned, needing only to be used in the way that it was intended.

But for tonight I remain Charrière on the cliffside,

watching the
water roll down.

[Listening to: Danko Jones, "Lovercall"]