expectation of the evening intermission

how many nights
have these epics gone
ignored or forgotten
like dusty half read books

lovers creep passively
like rats through a digital medium
and these games we play have
loose rules tangled and misunderstood

how many nights have we
sat with cats and wine
and listened
to songs of silence
that cried out for
that one missing instrument

drunk soliloquy
in an abandoned theater
i am
but never wanted
this passion is a ripe fruit
waiting to rot from within

how many nights have we
sat on the front steps
looking at the stars
waiting and watching
the dramatic symphony
of cars to passing by
only to retire to an empty bed

of all the wounds
inflicted by patience
and all the worlds
imagined in moments of boredom
irrelevance is the worst

too many nights of
spent like dying words
reaching out reluctantly
as we grasp the hangman’s noose



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