Ink no longer fades it ferments.
Words in time become more potent.
Until something like an EMP
Or interplanetary warfare
Make Ashes of bones
We still chisel in stone.
I’m not hell-bent on production
Or even being remembered.
I do dream of June
Climbing the balcony of September.
Humming my favorite acoustic soul tunes.
She loves the ocean.
I’d love to be her moon.
Some days she shines
Like the sun on my clichés.
Sublimation is nigh praise.
She doesn’t speak of me publicly
But when it’s darkest she makes sure I’m lit.
Even if it’s for my own benefit.
My show and telltale heart is quickening.
If you see H.E.R. tell her I’m listening.