I don't think I'll quite feel it again;
the malicious smile behind my favorite thing.
The ebullience was just so closed and quiet, yet meant everything to me.
It happened much too often and for all of the wrong reasons, so I couldn't see myself doing it again.
But I have,
so many times.
And before the night begins to settle in I take good care of every thought I'd ever plagued myself with.
Every lament in which had put me to rest.
It's a lullaby, and what an endearing and dangerous tune I've fixed.
However, there is a light in the corner of the dark room, but she's so blinding and hot.
And I can't stand how she illuminates!
She's a warm hand holding a cold and silencing arm,
begging for something, anything else.
I don't listen, why would I?
There's too much truth to her pleas, too much rationality and coherence.
What would I do without the dark?
Fill it with light?
Let it blind and consume?
And what would that make of me?
A prophet?
A hero?
A survivor?
What if I'm not meant for those things?
There's a song playing along the soft silver piece-
flat and heavy,
tucked away,
sometimes awaiting,
but always remaining.