Thursday, November 12, 2009

the magic prince

I'm willing to bet
if I could see the inside of your heart
there would be little blue Christmas lights
strung up on the walls
and ten pairs of your old shoes
in sizes far too small
that you didn't want to throw away
I bet that if I
could see the inside of the places you find yourself
there would be broken bicycles
lying in the grass
and the air would smell of old paperbacks
I wear you on a locket around my neck
you would never know
I keep it closed.

Monday, November 02, 2009

twilights

make me a place
where a kiss isn't a promise
where the sky is red
the spindle trees are cottton white
show me a path
where age always leads to wisdom
where the lakes are violet
the fish are neon green
I want to dance all night
where a firelight is all we need
where we never grow tired of walking

Sunday, November 01, 2009

the seesaw takes two

once I asked for your heart and
without hesitation
with pure blind excitement
you pulled it over your head
and placed it in my palms
your heart
made of black cotton
it smelled the way you move
soulful.
sweet.

kissing like crazy
on the rain slick streetside
we've always had the very same rhythm
a mutual trespass through porcelain gates
into the cavernous mouths
our magnetic tongues would search and search and search
never quite finding
our definition.

back then I was leaving
and you were just going home
I watched you strip that veil of indifference
just for a moment and you said "don't go"

I wanted to ask you why
why I should stay
why we can't be
why I'm this way
why you're so dazzling
but I just told you I had to.


and now I think something has changed
or nothing did and you've just grown tired
absent
absent
absence
here for just long enough
but I'm growing tired too
I can't call out and then wonder
I'm too old to play with sometimes friends

I want to hold on because
we were like red coal
like too hot metal
and I can let it change into something different
I'll still have you near
and that's all that matters
but I've been doing all the trying

my hands are tired from grasping
my voice is hoarse from asking
my ego is bruised
and beaten
to beyond recognition
by your new lack of enthusiasm

maybe somethings weren't meant to last