A wick between fingertips. The sea drifting back into itself, over farmland and remains and the storm is over. The fire is out. I sit serene.
Did I get it all out?
Did I say it all?
Think back to the era before. In that small back room. Bass guitar, dirty and screaming. Drum machines and what'd it mean? All steps to something but nothing a voice.
And then there was only me. A house empty, a glass full. Press record and a million words fall out in a thousand verses in a hundred songs. Paint flows and stories told and I am only what I make. I am only what I make and that is all I've ever wanted to be. Sing soft and play loud. Drink hard and live fast. I am only what I make and that's all I want you to see.
That's all that was left in me.
The fire. The storm.
Drown everything. Burn everything.
Make.
And months fall. Touch comes and goes. Eyes into mine. Night and morning and emptiness and a heart dashed. Hearts. Months fall and tapes pile. Friends crash against the banks and my head is more than what I make, my head, poisoned and alive and screaming at the sky.
Press record.
Jazz in the night. Piss in the alley. Kiss in the street.
We survived to meet.
Rain slows, flame slips blue.
All I've ever wanted to be. I'm not that anymore. Did I get it all out? Did I say it all? Months fall and I am silent. Motionless. Well, dried.
