*untitled

i remember when things were easy.

like waking up

in a strangers bed

&walking outback for a cigarette.

like laying

facedown on the carpet

with headphones still on

&a spilled glass

or small hole

burned to give

lived-in character

to a place i called home.

no directions

&no complicated questions.

we could sit for hours

&move for minutes.

oh- when i think of the mysteries

solved with no real intention

of being answered questions…

the future as a wildly dull place

until we dreamt.

our glorified portrayals.

tones depicting some unexpressed

idea if only we could see it.

thats where we failed ourselves.

to recreate moments

that only existed on that floor.

in that bed.

i s'pose thats where we still fail.

but less &less now.

small gifts as realized thought.

realized dialogue that was crafted in

particular moments we were not together for-

but can describe with more detail

to retain every breath

between words

through notes &rhythms.

actualized to be realized with minimal

misinterpretation

yet still open for collaboration

enough to create

those pasadena alleyfights

&culdesac children

playing tricks on passerbys.

words almost take away

purity by describing something

unintended

though they still belong i guess.

we don't need em-

but we're not the only ones.