little stings on my lips,
ghost tracks on a sunny afternoon in a silent house with dust,
and then dusk,
and the reception gets weaker as i descend into a curve down beneath the sea.
i've been here, everything else is the same,
those smudgy footprints along the hardwood,
but it's definitely been a while.
this is how i can tell:
i have not stalked the land for countless days.
this time, like my every visit, is different.
i know, because when i open my mouth there is no more hunger.
when i open my mouth all that comes out is song.
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