There is no coming down
from the trip of zero hours
soaked in a rose water rain
but now I am drowning out
the noise and the pain.
Songs of the yesteryears
sung in our witching hour
play at the back of my mind
like a withering blood soaked flower
trying to bloom out of a corpse.
I don’t know how my moon is
but I know she’s somewhere in this town
hiding behind the clouds and the rain
waiting for the happy hour.
When the days of reminiscing ends
and the staring into the middle distance
is not a habit anymore
I will check myself out of rehab
and celebrate not hurting when holding you
in my hands
when the thorns are all smoothed out
and the flower is young with spring
the poems stored in the book
you hold in your hands
will be washed of the taint
and the memories will just be memories
happy but faint
leave a little scent on your fingers
and it would not smell like rain
anymore.