It was impossible to run out and meet the night, from where I was sitting.
Across from her at that restaurant on Marsh St.
“I’ve identified the problem” she said in a cold, lifeless voice. The lantern still in her cold white hands.
“you’re terrified of being loved”.
With that last sentence I woke from the sleepless October dream.
So what is my next command? Raise the portcullis and drain the moat?
I began to suspect that traveling storyteller with the troubled mind was right.
I do often suspect my ribcage is a sort of jail cell.
I’m not sure what it is I want to keep out or in.
It’s evident from the street there is a conflict inside.
To hear the echo now might have just saved my life.
Or at the least a chapter of a book I can’t yet write.
And again to further contradict myself, in my own learned form, I’ll tell you something here.
As much as I strive for the clean drawn page. I’m often just thirsty for a fiery destruction of my delightful own.
It crosses my mind more than she does.