Back towards the light,

a skill borrowed and bled ,

with spaces and waves in between, to fill-in the gaps, like hydraulic cement.

Hydraulic me, coming and going, bricks and other pieces falling away from me ,

like hot asphalt being poured , and then cured.

like vining plants climbing and erasing the fence, and suddenly were cured.

Throwing it all at the walls to see what sticks, fighting to climb those same walls all the time.

what with all the vines and shit you’ve thrown at it, preventing you from getting a good grip, but not preventing sentences from being too long,

having too many thoughts, going off script, etc. etc.

We are not sure where to go , which song to play next, where to put your ( our?) hands,

how to deal with this headache. or where you left your gloves.

Which hand we should run through our hair,

because it matters, and well always chase it,

feel it,

get lost in it, ( our hair, the hair)

what matters… ( if your still reading)

what matters.