For Every Coin Thrown In The Fountain

I am in debt to this sensation. My only real crime is my obsession with documenting it.

Love letters from pens with no ink... and I'm left reading scratches on the table. Pulling my pen from my pocket, putting it right back. False alarm. So much swirling through my head but no amount of words to map it out. The blueprints have failed.

You know... whispers are so much louder in the dark. So break bulbs with me, babe. Let's burn these secrets down. Expose you to this audience we call our conscience. Suckers for the dark room.

Scrapbooks won't last. Sooner or later the color will fade, drip, and become a mess of memories that once were. A puddle of forgotten flashes and dead chromophil. Expired smiles illustrated under dust.

Once the rewind button is broken, all you can do is let it play through. Writing off tomorrows every time my fingers touch these buttons. Putting all the comforts and closeness in reverse just for you.

I haven't felt much like staring at a computer screen lately, reading words put to paper years ago instead. It slows my heart down.

Exit.