head pressed to the floor
I hear the train, I hear the wind
I listen for you and then you come
with callused fingers
ོ
filtered sound through splintering wood
and I lay down,
to be stripped bare
straight down to my soul.
ོ
I let you go where only painted fingers have been,
wondering how hot hell could really be but now I know,
lying in this burning field
with my head pressed into the earth
ོ
it’s been centuries.
I can’t hear you anymore.
just the train,
just the wind.
it’s been centuries.
