Midnights

Late into the night sky;

Do you lift your eyes to the heavens when I call to you? When the night sky is dark except for the shimmering and I face a crescent cut. Do the strings pull in your chest as mine hope ever so hopelessly?

You come fleeting by

As if nothing means everything and truth lies on your sole. Crushed, awaiting an end to the era that never was, and is it coming? Am I good enough? Are you? The mirror cracks every time it doesn’t and no words can fix the facade. Fleeting like the memories once held dear, a deer deep in tall faded grass.

Moments like these are what make dreams

Midnights come with illusion. Theirs is the only time a heart holds another. The only time we allow it. For one can barely differ real from naught and the lies can turn to dreams. Are what you dream of like mine? Are they filled with you? Do you treat the land of your dreams like these that are mine? Is it a moment too late when the clock strikes twelve?

What they are when life’s real

They are truth. They are tangible and I can taste them at the back of my throat. Boiling anger. Frustration at what could be. What was, and wasn’t. They are exquisitely satisfying, these lies. Telling of a time that did not quite exist. When life was simpler and it was an easier existence. What we are, is whole. With or without, through and through.