You Didn't Feel a Thing

 

Pressed in a book the notice, and thought a man in between rotted from rattle to bone with regret.

He reached out in the afternoon on a window sill, from tongue to nervous systematic shame. 

Awareness spikes from insulation an archetypal gaze that sits for miles in sickening flights from coast to coast.

Hope simmers in the mid day the flashes of possibility pirouettes on every needle turn, as the turn tables tick back with crushing might, 

Pour over 2 cups for a river of tears miles of narrow straights that confess gapes, and mouthfuls of dirty language too violent for transparent love. 

Agony stiffens, and circles the same rotted joints as the heart stiffens back, but opens in musing struggles, waxing density miles of unraveled red tape as the pit stares back asking for more. 

Coffee is made now, see you on the flip side.