You feel better now that you have

the road,

cast before the witching hour

stretching

reaching

pleading

for the dark.

The radio is what you have

for words.

Tonight your throat made the decision

to be innate.

And no, your feelings chose to be no objective

for this night's discussion.

You've rehearsed this before,

in your mind,

simultaneous to the emission of your beautiful lullabies

(screams of desperation)

and your recollection of

that night.

--

Living

breathing

writhing

suffocating

in the shadows of those who create

shadows of imaginary children for you.

And as burden entered your respectable apparatus,

you contemplated the nature of your desire

melting words on the breadth of your tongue,

like the night when you

melted into another.

--

How that hour

embossed the notion

that maybe you had roses

instead of weeds.

And you laid down

(again)

on the cold,

desolate ground,

in your mind compensating for the warmth of that boy.

That boy.

Next to you now,

seeds of exhaustion planted on the corners of his eyes

to keep him awake;

to keep him sane.

Paper cuts on the corners of his lips,

to remind him not to

reenact the dialogue he has grown to love

(resent).

And he knew that on

that night

you were a synthetic dilemma.

Something that would ebb into his life,

and flow gracefully back into the seas of his adolescence.

Inundated with all the things

we were birthed knowing were

iniquitous.

--

He knew his mother was similar

to this girl.

Trembling, screams

dancing,

moving,

reverberating,

across his memory.

And it kills him to know

that this road

paved and perfect

is leading him to a fortress

of murder, and simulated heavens

to end the life

of himself.

(or something to that effect).