the expected honk
in the quite void
still startles you -
cowered deep down
(and unwillingly) you've begun morphing
into a manila cocktail of moon,
headlights, and the taxi's own reflection
(which rests hitting your body
with aggravating precision
through your tightly shut
drapes). you have perfected
the act of sinking
on the couch in your head,
which is raggedly outdated
and never replaced
because (memories) - watching,
but unmoving as hours drain
like blood from the sky -
the stars turn to flames
in this infinite vigil 
(brutal is the slaughter
you have grow to know
all too well). abruptly, the screech
of hot rubber, asphalt, and tar,
the sounds of
black on black on black -
it's gone & you don't care
as you walk with cracking ankles
to turn on the stove and make a cup of tea
like a complacent coward - but you rest
easily, because everything
(in this moment) is now
as gone
as you -
yet, amidst the massacre
darkness always wins -
there is a neglected
glister glinting gently
& playing off the whites
of your emptiness