handle with care.i got your box in the mail. the one with all
the stamps. it was bent and torn and taped
up again. so you've sent me your love? with
one simple instruction: handle with care.
i don't think i can manage two hearts at once.
so i'll have to give you mine. i hope you don't
mind. it's a little bruised and broken. but i
think it works just as well.
you have this idea that my hands are beautiful
enough to hold yours. well my rose colored glasses
must have broke. but you are still the sad and lovely
boy with the bright and passionate mouth.
sweet releaseit didnt matter that you were grasping my limbs and folding them away as the water swept up over my face again. that was one more time than i could remember where i almost couldnt breath, liquid like ice filling up my lungs before you pulled me up again. pulling me close and holding me to your warm chest.
im sorry, im sorry you would whisper. and i would always forgive you, with a cough and water spilling from my lips, tears springing to my eyes.
and then down again.
the cold was always the first shock. and then after the fear shrank away, there was only the empty numbness creeping through my body, and your face looking down on me. and me looking up at your face.
and then the swirls of water would melt with the color of your skin, and your phantom eyes would burn into my mind. my eyelids would begin to close, eyelashes frozen against my cheek. and nothing but the last thing i heard would play as a hollow sound inside my head.
im sorry, im
friday night ghostsyour lips touch my lips
and your fingers
cold iron bars
on my neck.
our hearts are the noise
the television fuzz
echoing in my bedroom.
i have the empty feeling
of a frigid night
lighting gone somewhere
beyond the line of sight.
were friday night ghosts
made of dissipating vapors
in the wind, in the wind.
lets split open our hearts
on the hardwood floor
and count every saved up cent.
cause now i dont feel
like feeling any more
sunshine on my face.
flies in the kitchenI can watch you from my kitchen window. Youre smoking a cigarette right down to the bud. I envy the way you can curl your smoke into little rings that swim up and splatter into fog against the roof of your front porch. I put my lips against the cold tin mouth of my Arizona tea and pretend its your mouth. Its hot like hell all around me. Or maybe heaven, since its closer to the sun. I can watch you from my kitchen window while I sit on the counter with my feet in the sink. The drip drips land on my toes and I squint one eye and aim for my chipped-polish nail. The weather channel said this is a drought. Everyones yards are cardboard brown and too brittle to walk on barefoot. I wonder if standing outside in the hissing sight of the sun would be worth the hope of catching your attention. I dont know how or why you can sit in the heat. With a hot bud between your lips.
Its hell outside. I pretend its winter and that the glare is the from the w