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You sit with your head up

in the sky,

your head up

in the why;

why does this keep

happening?

 

That’s the thing,

you reach out

and bring, no thing

back but the empty

promise

of the possibility;

 

something that is

an impossibility,

possibly. Or without

realising brings out

what you knew

but didn’t want to.

 

I let you, and you

let me too.

It isn’t useful but

it’s true. And if truth is

worth anything, is

anything worth who

 

you believe to be. Believe

me, you aren’t.

Aren’t you impossible?

And if you are,

how did it make it this

far? So far

 

I am without doubt.

But doubt doesn’t

make out to be more

than it is. Not like you;

who is flawless, you

think. Thoughtless,

 

I drink it in. I begin

to smell of you, dust

settles on the crystal

decanter; whiskey takes

all the overwrought

pain, turns rain

 

to whiskey. Is this key

to the story? or does

the story end here?

You can smell smoke

on their breath; they broke

that promise.

 

So, why does this

keep happening? Lost

in full rooms, lost

and empty. Silence

amidst the clatter,

preferring endless noise

 

and noiselessness is

preferable to the latter.

When the latter,

is no more than the

noiseless echo itself.

No health to be found

 

in these smoke filled

rooms of memory,

like clouds that by

remembering be.

You sit with your head up

in the sky.