empty streets
empty hearts
both as cold
as a shitty kiss
grit my teeth
and hiss
at absolutely fucking nothing
conversations that spiral
from meaning to
background noise
while the TV plays on
incessant chatter
till i no longer know
if it's the TV or a human being
talking to me
my head is in some space
where the angels float
asphyxiated
i count them off
one by one
i wish i could float too
wouldn't that be fun?

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some days, you hunt for the poems. Other days, poems track you down like hungry cheetahs on the Savannah