I'm sleeping in the lounge
because I can't sleep in my bed
because you're stained in my sheets
and a stain in my head

I've deleted all my music
and I've started anew
four thousand songs down the drain
that you listened to, too

yet I can't wipe away
all the footprints you left
down the memory lanes
in my head and my chest

and i'm the guy. the guy who's calling
and knocking on the door
and she's the sky. the sky is falling
but who's she falling for

i met the darling devil on her own porch
-darkling-
a wine bottle in hand
foot tapping to some underground band

she said
mi casa, su casa
my castle, your casket

I shed
my masks and my musket
said - if you need something just ask it

she smiled. her only response.
i could see she must have what she wants
to be a human on our green and blue ball
the most dangerous being of them all

she's got a voice like lavender
and a hug like a rhyme
the legs of a traveller
and a mind teeming with time

she thinks like a poet
yet acts like a priest
she's has an air of fresh breath
wisecracks stuck between her teeth

she picks them out like
apples in the market
like moses on the mount might
like crops at a harvest

that's all i have for her tonight

i fall in love like i get sick
it happens on some idle tuesday
after a night in the rain

come sit at my bedside
and have a cup of tea
i'm a little low on love
and more than low on vitamin c

i kiss like i cough
and i **** like a shiver
with a wheeze
and a nose running rivers
i'll wear my heart on my sneeze

I've been running around
a notebook on my hip
and the sun in my eyes
and your words on my lips

i've been falling asleep
with your smell on my mind
and the faintest memory
of our fingers entwined

but I've been waking up
with a pillow by my side
and you leaving with my dreams
on the outgoing tide

I knew a glassy eyed doll
a classy glass idol
red to excess; red lipstick
and red back-less dresses for the spine-less chick
well re(a)d in chiq cosmo - check
but purple(xed) by the cosmos
rotting, like her kombucha and compost

if she was a yawn she'd be a Sunday morning, just been snoring (dream exploring) kind of yawning
eyes closing creeping smile stretched across six pillows
blinds opening, sleep exiled, rays etched on skin in Gogh yellows
on her arms

if she was the sky she'd be fiery
if she was a Guy she'd be Fieri
blazing sunsets on silly shirts
silly dances at concerts

If she was a word she'd be a cellar door
and if she was a movie she'd be stellar wars
a euphony a symphony
music and imagery

and if she was art she'd be a dancing Degas
with the tempest of Turner and the dynamism of Dali
art for everybody but special to me