I look to the counting of the words.
Counting of the minutes.
Counting of the beats of my heart within my torn chest.
Counting the notes of the melody; an undercurrent playing out within the words that fly onto the page. Counting on the end to come so that I can rest in dreamless bliss.
Tell the world to dream its dreams on its own dime.
Counting on the love to push me into another day.
Counting the minutes, seconds, until the sun rises and I can breathe again.
Let the world sleep. I don’t give a flying fuck about all but a few. The few chosen beats that make this old heart bother to pump at all. Let the world burn around me as I relish the heat in this cold corner of my sad and twisted mind.