The truth never sings at the roar of night,
When she comes to my salvation, but neither really saves.
Left in the midst are pieces of two,
Your checkered mate, soul’s breach.
I wonder how the flowers on your dress never dance away
In high heaven
For the proximity of her encompassing.
Then I start to ask: what are night’s words?
If the seasons split, and still no trace of her humble shadow,
Just a vestige note, curvilinear writing
And an empty wig.
I have searched ‘til the end of the purple carpet,
To see what your breath has left,
If only you could show me
How you lived.
Allow me to dissolve myself,
If every inch of that dream,
Is grossly refuted,
When you understand the same stars,
But you seek another shelter within that stable’s reach,
I’m tired of running,
From your face. Your beautiful face.
Julie London knows how to sing
an unhappy filmmaker