The last two days you've worn the same clothes,
covered in sweat stains and smoke;
and all that's good left in the world
has only half your gaze at best
as you ride through towns
on the backs of dreams not found here,
but it's better than you remember.
Maybe it's the weather.
Maybe the lighting's better.
Maybe it's the whispers,
or maybe you're just old and tired.
Want to know the thing that sells me on art?
The inability to repeat,
a once in a lifetime thing.
The whole of a moment caught forever after.
Moments: once in a lifetime moments.
Always the time of your life, always.
Maybe it's what we're after.
Maybe that's something better.
Maybe it's the leathering
of the skin that breeds desire.
Living as tourists,
taking in every scene that we can.
We gaze our eyes and they're gifted
unobstructed views to the sea,
but lately we just stare into the trees.
We don't just look up at clouds anymore.
I haven't played games in my mind
with the shapes in the sky in years.
So, let's lay
on our backs
in the shade,
and speak into existence
the things we want so badly to believe!
I'm not not strange,
as queer as I am safe.
We're right here!
Can that be enough today?
Isn't it why we came?
