Re:Hearse

The words return with the season.

I no longer sleep. The street goes silent after midnight, everything breaks, my mind races with stories, every time I close my eyes I have to open them again to jot something new down, I am not sorry. Every time I close my eyes the void grows and grows like the empty space at the other side of the bed I do not rest. Every sentence reads itself to me like a poem, every word is a weapon, I see the spoken word enthusiasts fight their battles on a stage and I cannot push the computer keys hard enough for this emphasis. I saw a dead man in the street today, passed out on the Bowery on his cardboard bed, eyes open staring at the skies, beautiful sunny Sunday in a cleaned up city that never sleeps, only lives or dies and at 2:30 in the morning when even the garbage trucks rest you do not know which you would prefer. His eyes were so hollow; there was no meaning to derive. We sat in an apartment in Chinatown with the roof sagging and I thought there is still magic here it is your duty to find it but the cigarettes don't taste so good when you've forgotten about them for a while, it's disappointing.
The words return when there is space for them to.
I make all the space in the world, I throw out my entire closet, I burn the furniture, I carve out my insides, there is not room for anything else in this hollow shell of a person, one day in my youth I made a deal with the devil and he does not forget. The words are here now, they make my toes tingle, they make my sentences run on like they're running out of time to be spoken, like I'm running out of time to be read, but the devil sits at the foot of my bed smiling because he knows he can pull the sheets from my body, pull the sleep from my eyes, he pulls the warmth from the little flame inside my chest and all because I said the word would set my whole
world
on
fire.