This morning bed

Sorrow comes in days. sunshine settling over the pale skin where hands once trembled in loving shame. in fear. consequences born from being under the wrong side of the right and just wishing there was a way to say 'this is how it is. this is who i am. and that's why i've got to be...'

But there never is. never will be. no matter what corner of the street you slink and smolder ashy eyes along familiar bodies (tracing them later on the ceiling. bare-chested and desperate for a taste of sweat along the thigh).

The horror illuminates. the imp cries perverse.

Skips his own love. tears this hole and ribbons around a dream of smiling faces. sweet summer sighs and lemonade by firelight. the next one. the future. the name drifting on into the unforeseen.

The unimagined.

The time when you might curb these shakes and cry with dignity, alive.

A Hundred Years.mp3