a place to keep words

MAP

DREAM

SCURRY

The hum of the cicadas sound like power lines, reminds me of the good old times. Smoking cigarettes back on those dirt roads - on the hood of your beat up ‘84 skyline. Where heavens lend black and the birds cease to sing an eerie quiet sweeps the orbit and my thoughts split and vibrate to other places. Where the air cools and stars strike in the distance. Where kisses speak in the cadence of my love language, secret and hurried and desperate. I would like to go to where my attentions tend to creep to, but I might never come back. Back where seasons fade into one another — faster and harder to differentiate, recycling the dead and dying where you’re laughing and I can’t stop crying. Back to where the rain is heavy and the streets run like rivers. Back to here where the power lines sound like cicadas in the summertime. I blink and frantically find my place — and I’m