Eight Days A Week

In the early morning everything unravels; The night comes but never at the right moment. Too long, too short. The stars fall off their woven masterpiece. Everything collapses outwards away from its itself til nothing's left but beads and yarn.

So stitch me a sunrise. Show me those perfect winter mornings where everything's illuminated. Trees sagging under inches of new snow - bending but beautiful. Show me the world painted over where everything familiar is suddenly different.

And it is.

I didn't want to say goodbye to you. It's not like I didn't know this was coming but it still all feels incomplete. Hello. Goodbye. Hello. Goodbye. Endless cycles. Revolutions. Me caring, you looking so indifferent. I hate this feeling, this constant inadequacy.

Who knows where I'm walking. I have a broken compass in one hand and a treasure map in another. Maybe I'll get there, someday.

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