I gave you all the ingredients except joy, then handed you what you needed, what that is you don't need to know, still you used your heart as a flint. Making a fire of your own, you inhale my chaos, sucking in deep all the mess that's mine, pulling palls of smoke from me, all the wet dark matter from my mind now yours. Then you exhale settling me back into my world pacifying me.

Words. Or maybe a kiss, that's made up of more than just words but within words. It's a good thing we were talking about cashing in rainchecks and exchanges for dry wordlings. Because I always write like I am being grazed by you. The world that you just gave me, I don't want it. I am more interested in you that's more than just you. Music. It's as much about slipping into a song as it's about slipping into you. Sip from the rain. And why not, I have to sip something while I not write tonight, while I don't work at all.

Everything is so loud now, everything's got an extra dimension. The night stretches on, the shadows are getting expansive, the stripped trees taking up all the space and everything else is getting smaller and smaller as the last dregs are being drunk.

So, pour in more coffee, refill it, top off my cup. The stars are lonely this night, still I must sip. All that I need you to say, I have written most of it, but not all of it.

I know, I deliberately left you to fall by the wayside, but I want you to keep waiting for me, it's kinda becoming.

Look around you. All that you see is kindling. Sprigs not dry enough is no longer my concern;

I am not coming back.