The space between staying and leaving is is a mile high cornerstone, a city without a name. It is the last sentence falling aimlessly from the lips of a war veteran, the blaring music in a fast pacing car. The space between staying and leaving is also a name on my tongue, a galaxy of half moons in this constellation of rust, a pain I cannot forget, a voice I cannot erase.

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I think we're all a bit disoriented from all the life inside of us, a plateau of emotions jingling and merging into this soulless earth. We're made of all these frequencies, looking for some long forsaken resonance, never knowing where we lost it or how to ever get it back.

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I have the curse of being named. We all do - a loss of the disquiet that makes us human. In the frail moments of the morning, you float to me, a gust of moments lost indefinitely, wading back only waiting to depart, again. You and me, we are travellers in this night of desperation - sweat and skin and blues. And all that lies in between.

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Justin Vernon in all his unmitigated desire, once wept - " I have buried you in every place I've been, you keep ending up in my shaking hands". I know what he means, as if a rock weighs me down when your name rises in the room. In the loneliness of this life, we're mere words, a bandwagon of touch-me-nots trying to make sense of a monochrome world, ghosting in and out of lives, never here, never gone.

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I think the greatest danger in this life is to take all this swelling affection back to our graves. As they say, dead men tell no tales.

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And dead love, was never love.

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