Curb pillow

You wanted something beautiful, so I stole hours and buried them in dirt and called it art. Running in the rain, slipping and tripping away from the world, and you were right. This would make a good song, if I could inhale enough air to replace your breath in my lungs. Instead I mainline saliva like a junkie in a parking lot and rest my head on concrete. 

Sleepless shifting disturbs the dust that has settled on my body while I wait out my blackout. I rearrange my curb pillow and give a few extra hits of skull to concrete just to drive the point home. There is more than body and mind; there is body and all of my fragmented minds splintering in pieces among cracked leaves and oil slicks. I am laying on train tracks, I am motionless and tunneling deeper into conscious oblivion and I've never cared less.