the sky rained drops of music for hours. each sound took a perfect fit in each persons head.
the people were happy. they danced in thier dying city.
i sat and watched quietly. notes dripping into ripples from my clothes hair and tip of my nose.
there was nothing romantic about this. we all just soaked it in.
it starts to fade out. quiet sunshine breaks thru. everyone is tired.
we all start to sleep. then step out of our bodies again.
into the quiet.

"listen to yourself in vacuums"
a train vibrating car windows nearby.
"try to catch up to your dreams"
"a failed writer can love too" you told me.
and then you kissed my words.
dead trains seem to love this stuff.
i'll admit i did too.

i tend to write like i'm watching my dreams.

i tend to fail to write honestly myself.
which i don't like. but even when i write honestly,
my thoughts come out a bit overly dramatic.
or angry. or wrong.
i tend to crumple more pages then save.
and i tend to hit a delete button like my finger is making out with it.

nothing special.