my opinion about youlonely birdexhaling on the kitchen floor,your ramshackle wingsneed to rise higherfrom this ocean inside youof tequila at five pm;you are just a bad luck womansearching the eyes of strangers we meetfor a harlem nocturneof nighttime melancholia,or a sad story of a jukeboxwith starry, starry skin.you are my sweetest downfall,but flightless birds with wildheartsdon't belong here.
The sound of an approaching train282 days into the yearand I’m still not living, lostin this urban ballet, this cityof blinding lights. We knewa place where no cars can go,where even the cricketscouldn’t be heard - fifty one milesdown an old country road, where the wildflowersgrow like frilly laces, moonblossomstearing through the earth.You could feel the sky in yourthought out gaze, ignoring the starsand drifting into five am on velvetwaves just about to break.We don’t go there anymore.This thing between us setthe night on fire but it only lasteda little while. I still have that firesmoldering in my ashtray heart, butflowers aren’t apologies. You’ve enduredso many storms that you became one – I wore you like a bruise.I’ll be on the next train to Vegas, dreamingabout photographs from another time.Love is a smoke made from the fumesof sighs – may as well buy anotherpack. My lungs are empty anyway.
lost, but never foundsince you're gone,i have become that one girl:too much of not enough,she only goes out after dark,morphing through timeto the end.who am i to shine?what am i?burn scars and washing machines,the sound of an approaching train --off the map,a soft and fickle heart.empty street,runway,it's all the samestumbling around after the storm.my angel,these feelings cover melike summer in Paris;i see drops of Jupiter(they are called fireworks for a reason).my birdcage boy,outsiders don't understand.you are foreign even in your skin;too busy for life,playing the suicidal king of hearts.so let's pretend it's 9 pm instead.burn with me; take two.you're a subliminal message,a crown of thorns.let's play murder,by your hand is the only end i foresee:we're both drunk and always have been.
The End of Our StoryYou don’t know this, butI hate punctuation,even though I’m 146 pounds of storytellerand suicidal, by design.What I know about love is thatwhat-on-earth girls get too attachedto the good man and the length of rope,but I don’t think I’m alive enough to die yet.They say I’m guilty,but that you exist throughcoffee and sugar and raincalling me homefrom a journey, my journey,but that’s not the way I see it.Or maybe it actually is.Sometimes I lose things,things like crayon soulmates,promises for a fool,and colours I never tasted,things like you.Once upon a carcass,a hospital bird with soot in her lungsbelonged to you,but I didn’t mean to resonatethrough your pocket universesix years ago.