It flowed passed me again.
The night.
Full of smoked eyes and pushed in hearts.
Scratches of Lied Passions leaving marks.
Telling stories of their passing.
And even though you want to care,
Really care,
All that spills out is sad laughter.
Cheap shots replace sweet whispers.
Angry glares instead of love filled eyes.
The heart gets scabbed over.
And the night still pulls you along.
You can see the ones already gone.
But also, there are the fresh ones.
New to it all.
And making it all new with their openness.
So I guess there is hope.
Which is a teasing possibility.
But the dark side of hope is that you know.
That there was a chance to be fulfilled.
Even as you fail.
