Fool's Utopia

There's a different hue to his lips when he lies. A disjointed tempo in where the sound becomes language.

There's an angel on the dashboard. And a demon in the mirror. The tires sing against the pavement as we traverse the perimeter of nowhere. I prefer to drive myself, but occasionally I'll allow him to steer.

Everything has limits. Even this nothing. If only I could see them.

Frozen in the moment. Like icicles we slowly melt. Pointed, threatening and helpless. One drop becomes a puddle. And that puddle becomes a grave. Until there's nothing left of us.

Following the scent. Memory an angry bloodhound. Knows everywhere I've been. And am headed. Hunted by myself. And running from her.

He picked up his pants sliding into both legs at the same time. Wearing their denim like a temperate cast. Healing under the guise of self-destruction. Using other people as his medicine.

Should I not play the raven to his Lenore. Cryptic and uninvited. Haunting him with a black-winged nevermore.

Scouring the floor for pieces of their clothes. The ones they always had on, but never wore.

And here I am again the only one naked in my fool's utopia.