On top of a stained mattress
There is no love,
just oxycodone-loading-
and memories, "Tender, please"-
take ten of these-don't fake a dose
because I am close.
I am close.
I am close to you.

I feel okay, I feel okay
Well, I don't know-I don't show.
"Wait, don't go."
I feel okay, I feel okay

We don't show, no.
"Wait, don't go."
There are only memories
of when we were young guns.
We are too true-
take your oxycodone-
and it's terrifying.

On top of a star,
"You'll go far."
I love you enough to go to L.A.-
I feel okay, I feel okay-
Take your oxycodone
to get through the day.
And kiss me goodbye
before you try
to swim through the stratosphere,
my dear-it's clear.
It's near.

"Wait, I want to say-
before I slow motion
this emotion
that starts with a commotion
in my chest-
that I love you best
and it hurts to let go,
but it's not because of you.
I didn't know.
I didn't know what to do.

And it's true,
and that's what makes it terrifying.
My world is salt,
my sluggish love.
So, take your oxycodone,
because you don't want to feel what I feel.
And you don't want to reel like I reel."

I feel okay, I feel okay
Well, I don't know-I don't show.
"Wait, don't go."
I feel okay, I feel okay

We don't show, no.
"Wait, don't go."
There are only memories
of when we were young guns.
We are too true-
take your oxycodone-
and it's terrifying.

I met a man once who told me that the soul is split into three parts.

the first, the beauty you carry on your face and in your flesh. eyes as blue as a cloudless winter. every freckled shoulder, every broken bone. the look on your face when you know you're finally home. that crooked smile, running arms outstretched toward the river. dancing in the rain.

the second, the voice with which to sing. every word spoken in love. the lies you tell. the regret stuck in your throat. and then screaming out to stay, when it's the last second of the last day.

the third, the season that brings you in.
how the sun falls on your face and that shiver from the bitter cold. the piece you can't control. the heart pumping blood. the brain's wires crossed. the longing for death. the infatuation with living, breathing. your fate to feel, to love, to hate, to fear.
life's arms open to receive you and death waits to keep you.

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

Since when was being called a child an insult?
Is a child so dumb and unknowing?
Is a child not a sponge absorbing knowledge and experience?

If I'm called childish, it seems more a compliment than an insult.

I can taste your bones in my mouth
decadent, exhausted

you peeled my skin back
and watched me burn brighter than the skyline on fire
pierced reds pulsing pitch

I left the morning with my head on your pavement
staring into nothing

There are the days that love swells and grows infinitely around me.
It will pick me up and throw me over its shoulder in bliss and sing me to sleep with harmonics so angelic my tears themselves begin to cry.
There are the days when love will never be proven wrong, when nothing matters but love.

         And then there is today.

Even if you're not insane
you'll still see shadows out of the corner of your eyes.
you'll still feel the breathless night cast moonlight on your neck.
but you may not feel the touch that there could've been
if you had stayed awake long enough to say my name.

it's not my fault that i haunt your brain
with nightmares of heartless cages trapping you
instead of my arms wrapping you in warmth and love.
what do we do now? do we walk away?

no, we sit down and wait for the swings to sway.
we spell out each other's name during our late night games.
we unlock the cage that keeps us frozen
like a picture that holds one perfectly still frame.
yet at the end of the day, we'll still scream from the pain.

Warm thighs
Cold nights
Empty bed
Tears shed
Dry hands
Feet untangled
Messy hair
Lips bare
Nervous sighs
Hungry cries
Skin untouched
Fingers unlaced
Moans unuttered
Thoughts cluttered
Wandering soul
Time slow
So slow