Black, black, black-
Black is the ink and the map,
backwards inside of my
fist, where I've buried my
hitchhiker thumb as cars pass
by the back of an upside-down
map.
I stand, but I hide to the side
of the road, by the shoulder, I
strayed
to hover like smoke in a ditch
behind where I looked for what I
couldn't find
in the time I spent lost, losing
time
just off of the main road, just
found.
And it takes but a beat- just a
breath of a blink of a beat- to fall
back-
Just a moment to know when
an effort, a thing, an
endeavor is one to deem
futile.
And the flashes from headlights
that crack,
how they crack like a knife
through my back,
how they snap and they split
up the seam of my spine when
unseen, and unseen, and
unseen.
Leaving brittle, the bones
scattered over the miles-
miles that curl
like a noose, and I coil
like a snake.
On a night without stars, with
no light to track back, for
the sky is still moonless, still
black.
And my feet, they are fast
to turn back, and my back,
quick to turn
from the street I know well, that is
black,
black,
black as the pits of my eyes-
Eyes that look haunted and heavy
and sideways and tired,
but never look
back.
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