You and I are like a long distance relationship that's stretches as far as my backyard.
I look out my bedroom window every evening and watch you change in and out of your twelve dresses, catching glimpses of your naked body without you noticing.

We are the wordless poets who write poems for our nicotine needles and wine addictions.
You lay beautifully on the clouds, as I lay quietly in my bed, and that's the closest we'll ever be with one another.

You don't realize that you are the one of whom my thoughts drift always when I set fire to my mind.

My soul yearns to rest in yours and dream until I die.

We could wrap ourselves in ribbons of moonshine and call ourselves a song to remember, and fall like leaves into each other while we sing sub-natural songs.

The sun is in your blood, your water is in mine.
For you I'd walk endlessly until the end of time.
Read books that were never divine.
My Dear; let us kiss until we die.

Friends leave like the leaves in Autumn;
slowly, inevitably, and softly flowing down to decay amongst the ground and the wind.

But there's always those few stubborn dead ones that somehow stick to the twigs.
Remind yourself to keep close to those ones; don't let them fall and they won't let you.

The same could be said for the books who grow legs, yet they're always sneaking out the back door.

It still smells like human iron in your pool.
There's a crack in the concrete where the bullet stopped.
It still smells like human iron by the side of your pool, there's a stain.
I still can't find where that bullet went.

I always thought that your "love" of the higher life was overrated.
Nobody ever talked about how great it is to be rich as much as you did.
Even though you talked about it so quietly, most of the time.

You spoke a lot about Daisies.
I'm more of a Lillie type of person.

There are a lot of people in New York, Gatsby. Too many people in New York.
New York only needed you, Gatsby, but it looks like New York didn't want you anymore.
That's not sad though, is it?

Carraway's book is like gold.   I bookmarked eight of my favorite pages in it with yellow cigarettes.  I'm too afraid to smoke them.

When your old mansion was bought I expected to see you as a ghost in it,
you weren't there.
That green light across the bay isn't there anymore, it's red now.
I believe I'm sleeping in the same bedroom you once did.
You aren't one of those ghosts that haunt a house, you haunt a human concept of want.

I wish I'd never bought your house.
I'm going to tear this place down.  Along with Nick's old place next door.
The memories here in these empty, furniture filled rooms, are unbearable at best.

Of course they're not my memories, but I'd be a familiar person to you if you knew me.
I smash and break things, and then retreat back into my money and vast carelessness.

Farewell Jay Gatsby.

I saw a naked woman's silhouette laying in the mountains this morning.
Her skin was made of trees, and her hair made of dry creek beds.
She's was asking for a name, I think it was her's she sought.

It was then I realized that she's been laying there for a very long time, and I never noticed her until just now.
This woman's naked silhouette was manefested in flesh and blood of stone and dirt.
We walk on her like ants.

When she cries, the Earth shakes in minisquel tremors that even a needle couldn't feel.
She's begging to be found.
I found her, but she does she care?

I'll never know because she's only a few mountains standing side by side together.