Pebbles pressed against pale skin. I let my eyes dart to black skies full of no stars. The street lights hang like fallen saviors, offering no grace, no solace. I wish for pin pricks of light.
The end of my street smells of tar. The music in my ears echoes between the breeze on my cheek. I look to the forest on the left as my silhouette is outlined by the flashes of a forgotten TV in the house to my back. Memories of being forgotten. We are blessed, I am cursed. I wonder if God's simply a creation of man. I wonder if man could possibly be a creation of God. I can feel the grass between my fingers. The dew is cold. The moisture makes me wish for her skin.
Blue haze from each breath halos the rings around my eyes. I know it's just going to be one of those nights my head repels the pillow - one of those nights I count the spackle from my painted ceiling. Girl, I can see your face like a Turin etched behind my eyelids.