Waltzing in a whirl wondering when I will feel the warmth again. Dancing in circles desperate for more, a deeper feeling, more meaning of being.
Lost and alone, you stand there, but where is our world? I can’t find you so lost in mine, in and out of consciousness, barely aware, mind confined, to the place hide in.
So scared you’re not here. Have we have grown apart and lost it? I hunger for the love we had, I want you in my bed, I want to know us again.
Pretending nothing happened?
Telling lies for we must not tell the truth?
Every time you accidentally mention my name,
brush me off your shoulder, edge a little closer
on a floral couch…
When I rested my head on your shoulder
on the train I wished you were mine again.
Even if you were disguised behind
a handsome strangers eyes,
the softness of your shirt gave rise
to the silentest of cries.
I could not believe that this dream
was sure to leave. I look for you night
after night until I get your face just right.
It’s comforting, there is no ring.
Sometimes, these strangers speak what you cannot.
Sometimes I think: I think, you like him, I think he likes you.
Thanks, smiling foreign dude!
A butterscotch shot, you’ll feel it in your sleep
with no hint lingering on your waking kiss.
I roll out of bed and try to remember
if I was dreaming of now or September,
under oak and apple trees
while we run from cops, skin our knees.
If this were the last moment of my life,
I would be sad. Accepting that this moment,
aside from all the noise of machines in the distance and
the strange fellow with the grey hooded sweatshirt
that just walked by is perfect:
I am sitting in the shade. I hear the spinning spokes
of a ten speed bike as I want for the clock to strike
the afternoon with four loud booms.
Chimes that string the leaves together
only so they can grow weak and detach…
I am sitting in the shade I hear the spinning spokes
of a ten speed bike as I want for the clock to strike
the afternoon with four loud booms.
Chimes that string the leaves together
only so they can grow weak and detach.
Does it bleed right through from me to you? Are my thoughts placed flat or running like a racing rat? Do you notice the absence of incense or the abscess of stress that grows in a knot in your gut? Does it bleed through a white shirt? Gory tie dye design, screaming circles of deepest red. Finally spiraling out, flickering off, going to bed.
