Clean

(I do not own the timing, the way the words choose to come out, when they are ready. The evening is late when I feel the clarity, when I know it is time. I sit down and suddenly everything makes sense, by the time I finish I never want to sleep, I want to only keep writing, I never want to leave this corner of my shoebox, where the papers pile, the post-its reign and rain, where the books build walls and they look more like shelter. It was never that I didn't want to do it, it's that it wanted to do it right. He sends the silence to cover your borough, but you fill the voids with words, with curlicue lyrics for broken songs and you know you've never felt better than in the late, still nights of ink in your veins. You open a window and find the Alphabet City night quiet, the asphalt sweating after the thunderstorm, summer still wild and alive, you, a little too.)