He wore paper cuts and drank moonlight.
Knew the difference between winter and a cold front;
It was in her scent.
A sweet aroma no amount of cold shoulder could cover.
His home was in the space between stars.
Beyond reach and out of touch.
He knew touch
In the form of sickle shaped words
And outward moving hands.
One time he wrote a letter to god.
It came back unopened and marked “RETURN TO SENDER,”
So he tried to find the devil’s front door.
But after digging through layer after layer after layer of bullshit,
He quit trying.
Figured father figures weren’t worth the daddy issues.
Tried to slip away unnoticed,
But graveyards can’t escape their ghosts.
His bones are buried behind massive walls of distance
Wrapped in longing to draw near,
But he’s not much of an artist,
So he settles for the distance.