All kinds of things burn when the lights go out
and that smell rolls in from outside.
That drifting scent that wafts in curls
and dissipates the dissemination of the only truth we have left.
I have all day, but I still feel I’m running out of time,
like running out on lovers
who’re still finding their shoes
and dropping the lights
for the dark and confused.
I’ve met so many people
but only given half my name,
that one word that barely describes me,
but always seems to be
the best way
to get my attention.