she came to me 
in the night
on the howl of a train
distant and true
tried and tried through
unawares and in a hurry about it

I am no one's
for I am no one 

lucid interludes

and nothing more

His head in the sand
Hers in the sea
Together forever
Whatever may be
Swimming
Sinking
Waving
In panic
Until goodbye 
To the life she once lived
In her thoughts
And in her words
Alone

night envelops
the uninvited
unrequited 
love
of life
and death
death
always knocking
as the postman
rings
twice
as nice

like flowers resting between pages of a story left unread
unforgotten 
by time

alone.

In whispered tales of fake-believe,
She painted life a picture
Of whos and whats
And in-betweens.

Volume displaces things. 
So, I turn up the music and close my eyes. 
Shift this cardboard and conundrums maze inside. 
Twist, shout, and shake about, 
but in that nonchalant way 
which feels like progress and not destruction
--another distraction--a fresh infraction--a further retraction--redletter redaction--of life and self, 
until all that's left is what lies between here 
and the nearest way out.