And like that,
the switch
in my head
in my heart
is, somehow, impossibly,
flipped to "off"

You should have
hit the light switch
as you left, cursing me.

Empty me out
blood,
to the floor.

Open my veins,
hung from the door.

A way to sing the praise
of rotting memories
without the tears
without the years
without the tears
without the years

...

you could come
if you choose.

Don't think I dont know.

The music isn't a magnet,
it's an escape.

Conquistador
claiming you
night after night.

In those hot and
cool May and June nights.

How much could mean
nothing?

In memoria,
our ashes sing
songs of sadness.

Over the ridges of kettle corn chips
as some sort of enduring
piece mail attempt at balance.

It's never possible.
You are unlovable.

And if fault may lay,
it lay in me.
When I die,
early of my years,
I've gladly gone,
and am listening to music
with Noni
and Tim.