madness takes its toll, please have exact change

he has a story wrapped up inside him
and i want to listen.
i honestly do
i can’t find you through words or actions
and i know i might never
but that doesn’t mean i won’t
(spend the rest of my life trying anyway)
his pen runs out of ink,
but that’s okay,
because i have a collection of the ones he likes
(with the soft grip)
in a shoebox under my bed.
i have reds and greens and blues,
because i know sometimes he likes his pages to be colorful,
like the pigments would somehow bring life to the words
even though i know he does that himself
lying beneath the trampoline in backyards,
watching the sky move through the black screen above us.
at peace. nothing to fix.
shes always there in the dark corners of my mind,
hidden by thick layers of dust
and entertained by mice and spiders.
almost invisible. almost being the keyword.

a bedouin soundclash type three days