Extraction

The words that are written are memories traveling through time. An existence as magnanimous as the sun, yet as all consuming as the hungriest black hole.


The stars are spilling melodies
I simmer down below
Sweet symphonies explode
I want a million
Summer nights
Swept up in your monsoon


Extraction. I'm thinking of you now. An exile reversed. I'd carve it out on a silver spoon.
We mill in the twilight, the sticky air clings. I refrain. The longing is there. As are the hours and gallons of unspilled words. It's not that I don't know what to say. It's that the words I reach seem all wrong, or not enough meaning. And you know that.
Lost in translation.