your mouth is a door,
and someday you are going to be told that it's just better left closed.

your eyes are the windows to your soul,
and someday people are going to tell you to draw the curtains.

your heart has been unpacked from the basement,
and someday someone is going to tell you to put it away.

and your optimism is a candle in your windows, and someday everyone's going to try and blow it out.

i'm telling you this,
because when that someday comes i want you to know what to say.

you say,

"my mouth is a door, and i hold the key."
"my eyes are the windows to my soul and i'll wash them regularly."
"my heart will not be put away, it goes with everything."
"my optimism is a candle, and it keeps me warm."

when that someday comes,
i want you to know what to say...

you say,
"this is my house, and it's not for sale."

if you say, "i'm right here."
when i tell you i miss you
one more time
i'm going to place my hand on your chest
just to see if your heart is still beating.

i bet twenty dollars that it's not.
i bet thirty that it is, just not for me.

if you say, "i know."
when i tell you i love you
one more time
i'm going to dust your heart for finger prints
to see if it's still mine.

i'll get a CAT-scan of your mind...
just to see if i'm still on it.

i'm tired of playing "go fish"
so i can guess what you're feeling
"got any love?"
because lately you won't show me your cards
but i'm pretty sure you still have my heart.

i look at your internet search history...
just to see if you're still looking for ways to make me smile.

there used to be something here,
alive and blooming and present;
it was beautiful.
the same way my mother's favorite vase was,
until it fell off the shelf and broke.

i check your mail box,
just to see if there are any love letters that you forgot to send.

there never are.

in   my   side
   of  the Earth
I    was   not   tilted,
   realized      and    emptied
my   eyes    are   spigots
   my mother    left   open  to thaw
the glaciers   of
        supper

   zenith   visits   the   Summer
most   often   than  the
  wind blowing    through   the
curtain     of    my    eyes
   where   I   always   see   the dead
smidgen    flowers   all   over
   the    ricefields

             this   measure   of
tomorrow –    to  have been incarcerated
   in   the   past that   bears
no     arms    to
       this   very   Saturday    afternoon
fish   breathe  now
  in    enigmatic    means
    pulses    of   rivers
tangle     joys    with
    naked    boys   of   brindled   youth


    see   once   they   jackknife
into   a   memorized    depth
            pellucid  like   my   memory
of
      uncollected      afternoons

Keeping me up at night
I can't get you out of my head
And how you use to laugh
At every ******* thing I said