there must be a place where broken words go
the ones without a limb
not fully formed
not spoken right
not heard

there must be a place where broken words go
the sentences left uncompleted
the trailing words that never left the lips
the "but" and the "and"
that were always left hanging

somewhere between silence and speech
there must be a place where broken words go
full of stutters and writers block sufferers
somewhere between the "i love"
and the "you" that never followed
or the "wait"
that was whispered into the air
the "please come back"
that made peace with dying
on the corners of a turning mouth

there must be a place where broken words go
the words spoken but never heard
the letters written but never posted
the train of thought that crashed into the clouds
the words in the bottle that traveled the sea
but sunk to the bottom before it could ever reach

there must be a place where my broken words go
the stains on my diary that didn't come from a pen
and the letters on my thighs that don't make sense
the things i could never say
and the things i said that came out all wrong
all the broken alphabets in my song
that cry for salvation
for one more chance

there must be a place where broken words go
there must be a place i can call home.

We sit in a car,
just after dusk has fallen.
It's dark now.
The windows are tinted.
Passersby can't see inside.

A quiet little residential neighborhood
full of Doctors, and Lawyers, and Teachers.
They don't know who their neighbor is.
They don't know what he's done.

Inside the car, a pair of hands grips a pistol.
Like marines, they instinctively keep their forefinger
away from the trigger guard.
There will be no accidents tonight.
There will be no civilians.
Sixteen rounds in his hand.
$30,000 in the house.
That money is owed.

We put our masks on, and wait.
It's below zero, and two guys wearing ski masks isn't
that strange of a sight.
We would thank God for that,
but he's not in this car.
The devil's breath kicks out of the A/C.
It warms up our hands.
The gun remains cold.

Our eyes are fixed on the front porch.
He told us, "If the light comes on, come in hot."
The porch light is our green light, and we stare it down.
It remains off.
He comes out with a small manilla envelope tucked under his arm.
He gets in the backseat.
"Everything is square. We can go now."

It's been five minutes of holding our breath.
We exhale, as the car pulls away from the curb.

The beat pulses.
The rhythm shakes.
And she never breaks eye-contact as she serpentines
around me on the dance floor.
I thank god for that.
Because even after 4 whiskeys
I can tell
I'm an awful dancer.