The Ice is Cold

There are three truths circling us at all times:
There is beauty in letting go, but it’s frightening…
Clipped toenails are tiny shards of death…
Hotel rooms will always be better than home.

There is a small hum that is always in my ear.
It doesn’t have a voice but it talks to me. It speaks.
In the language of sorrow, and joy, and deafening ennui.

Watching the ice melt in my drink, listening to it too,
I see my truth, circling the glass, melting away.
It’s liquid and lovely and will kill you.

Every measurement of time is dependent upon a clock.
Each second is a heart beating on a wooden drum.

There is a spreading out of my universe.
Heading toward some event horizon.
Everything becoming further apart.

The ice rattles, my hum whispers,
“Time spills its stupid truth until
you’re dead.”

We are a galaxy of oscillating tics.
Vibrating until it hurts.
And hurts.






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