Life becomes so many wooden floors.

 

Slow motion: we’re at the bowling alley

moving far too slow across lacquered lanes;

then, we pace soft, wooden floors with doggie toenails

skittering sweetly across the grain.

 

Then again – now, wooden baseboards in Malibu,

joining up with poorly-built foundations

where we thought we could build upon.

 

Our toes were always above those floors,

tracing our tracks

along the longest nights that ever existed; those nights

where we stalk ghosts

through everything boundless.

 

It was all only just yesterday,

so many years ago.

 

It’s all in the tips of the fingers you brush,

breeding worlds;

all these wooden floors, netted by night.

 

It was a cult of Us, and the witching hour only existed there.

All was transcendental; truth was dark; everything – it never existed.

 

It was hidden and perfect; clandestine cravings never to be felt again.

Those slow nights: we stretched them on for years.

 

We pulled them like black taffy, warmed them –

and as they grew thick and stiffer, we pulled them –

stretched them, wanton, between our fingers.

 

The nights have always belonged to us,

empty mouths and ravenous chests.

werewolves we were,

slowing the dawn and burying stars

and thick spectral desires;

chasing ghosts.

 

werewolves we were.

we tasted the other side; it won’t let us go –

it comes across in sparks; a fleeting, sleeping twitch.

snow on a park city path.

absolute emptiness in a malibu house.

cold sheets and fireworks in half-time.

 

floating weightless in an empty midnight pool –

we are haunting us in real-time

 

x-rays and empty baggies

records skip and skip and skip

 

and skip and

 

and we’re howling at a moon

at the bottom of a bottle

 

cutting it all into silvery lines and moonlit crescents

 

and we are dancing and screaming and.

we’re werewolves and full and darkest, always, before the dawn.