No Pictures, No Service

And you in the pink, you think it's enough. But it's not really. In fact not quite remotely. You'll wait for your own. In the dark. Between some bushes or under a few layers of scuttle brush. It's not as if this all didn't happen during the day. But here you are in the dark. Yet again. Waiting on some three cornered equestrian to save your hide. Well the hide for saving isn't just your own. Funny that. You open up a can of peaches to find that half the barrel has emptied to the sea. Or at least that's what you fear to find. Among all that glass and concrete. Or at least you might think so.
But you can't really go back. The walls you built only creates a look of compassion. But salt creeps in. Rust and cottered linen. And there through the trees you find no friend but a fiefdom waiting to take the B2 bombers you had set aside. They're not supposed to go in bin 4. You wish that nothing went there. Not that things don't belong there for you perhaps, but that isn't their place. It's rather more waiting a return from the Narrows. Safe and sound though possibly battered a bit.
Do you see it? Is it vaguely there? Have you grabbed it by the shoulder or have you found it gone in that darkness you found. Dammed and misdirected. Moss to the reef.
Or do you, as is said, see it faintly, dimly, ever so slightly. If so, then away with the rest. Cut the string. It reduces to a point mass. With the other free, portable for one hand.

Awaiting to sleep.