Eight months since I have seen
Green oak trees and glowing kites
Pale blue skies and star-crowded nights

Eight are the layers of pain
that have not seen any light
Eight are the loaded pistols of nostalgia
stacked on my shoulders

What is Eight?
To some; legs of a spider or that of an octopus
But Eight is the number printed on your football jersey

Maybe Eight are the cookies in that rusty jar;
But Eight is the day
of the eighth month
when you followed my paths

When the cold breeze hits me
as I smoke my eighth cigarette
and travel back in time
to when I rose in your love
up to the eighth sky

a rainbow of seven fears hit me by
and a force of friction dragged me back
to fall back in love with you
deep into eighth ground

*To the Eight I've always favored
I bitterly make a toast
Here's to the only number
that now I loathe the most

i 've got a soft spot for the smell of tobacco and the taste of whiskey
and the voice of boys who claim to miss me

i long to get high
high up in the trees
in the hills
along the ridges
     i live to pierce the atmosphere
and note the lack of sensation as i plummet

oh how i love it
     those cheap thrills of the fall

I often found you more addictive when i was poisioned from loneliness..

Id like to see your nails grip the bed or the wall
Behind you with my hand in your hair as we fall
Together..
Deep into each other
The daughter of a mother
Your heart could leave mine sundered..
I guess thats the thrill,
Love her till she hates you and your guts are out and spilled
Need her like a weapon in a battle zone of war
Lead her through the temple of your body like a tour..
I hope she likes the architecture..

I have so much to catch up on here...
Dear God, give me willing strength.