Dropping things. Leaving them behind.
Trying to pick up other things.
Those things aren't mine.
But I find solace in the act of gaining.
Tired of losing, suffocating.
Discarded trinkets, washed.
Washed trinkets, discarded.
I once was wise, feeling retarded.
You'll find me among the broken things.
You'll find me among the song.
I am the blurred face in the street lights.
Where all those things sparkle.
I be the blurred one, missing it.
Half hazard and half awake
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