benign intervention

Feelings that you can put into words, into a hundred thousand words that won’t mean the same thing by the time you’ve finished them. I choose to be silent. There is never enough time.

Religion promises a million years. You speak with fire in your throat and no power over the smoke that comes out of your mouth. You were promised that time will clear your lungs. Maybe you will just be burning for an eternity longer than me.

Some nights feel like we only have a few hours. I know that you feel it too, with your wide eyes and skin all burning up and desperate to say everything like we can never speak again. I know that if I crawl inside your mouth and refuse to be choked out then we can have infinite hours, live inside the night so long as the drugs don’t run out and we never have to open the curtains.

We can hide inside as long as you like but Judgment Day depends on no pairs of eyes and asks for no permission. You have created God in your own image. I have to answer to no one while you must answer yourself a lifetime over.