It's 7:41 on a Thursday,
she's away at school,
her feet aren't in the country,
she would say I warned you
and he would change the subject.
He can't be bothered,
and he who would move mountains
can't know how high they perch.
He's too high to notice,
and I gave her up to impatience months ago,
trading beer for cigarettes,
even though smoking kills.
He would cry victim,
and be right all along,
while she would smirk silently
and whisper
what goes around comes around.

It's 7:46 on a Thursday,
and your lips are far from mine
but in my mind,
still.
Still there, filled with words like
now
and
trust me, it'll start to feel good soon.

Still there, singing Iron and Wine
with too much soul and not enough rasp.

Still there, chapped and peeling,
blowing smoke in my eyes so I can't quite see.

Still there, asking for another hit,
and apologizing because you hit too hard,
but hit the **** again
because we both know what you really mean
when tension is fire and your fists are the savior
So go for it,
hit again
maybe this time I'll bleed enough for you to notice.

Notice,
notice.

The mix tape I left you has love written all over it,
literally.
Is the birthday card still on your dresser?
Ironic.
My dresser,
your dresser,
your fist,
my nails.
We all seem to have something in common here,
maybe none of us know how
or when
to stop.

Stop.
hit,
ignore,
light up,
fall down,
get high again,
bend over,
trapped under...
this time the answer is

**no.

Those who love will never find it.
Those who love will write odes to crisp fall mornings
And hear symphonies crunched out of the yellow leaves beneath their feet.
Those who love will smile, even though they know
it will give them away
They will offer themselves up as if they had never given the mirror a second glance,
Let themselves be beaten like drums,
And a drum is just a bucket of silence
until you beat something out of it,
Beat something out of it.


Those who love will find poetry in the steam of their coffee
And beauty in even the worst of times;
Leave names like kristallnacht in our history books because they know that broken glass looks like stars,
And when a person truly loves there is nothing, nothing that can stop them from hoping.
People are like buckets of silence
Until you make something out of them,
Make something beautiful.


People who love know that tears
are the same as rain, and they are ready for monsoons
Because loving is lonely,
and for every drop out of shining eye
there are hundreds more waiting in the sky
and the people who love will dance in the downpour,
Collect every drop they can hold where the silence once was because drums can hold tears too,
and they will still be silent until you splash
and make something out of it,
make something beautiful.

I can't say I said to stop
but I never asked for this to start.
It was a Monday,
A cold one when you first held my hand.
Well not my hand, my hips actually,
but it may as well be the same thing at this point.
I told you not to fall and I swear to god I meant it,
But anyway,
seasons change and nothing stops the wind from blowing.
It was the comfortable type of pain, you said,
the kind where you forget what it was like to breathe normal.
Somewhere along the way by the rocks or maybe even in a field,
I remembered why I loved you
And cried to each and every blade of grass because they'd never understand.
I pulled out clumps and chunks until all that was left was dirt,
And when I realized what was gone I sat blisterung in the sun,
threading each and every blade back into place.
The difference was,
no one was waiting on my side with a needle to repair the damage,
Because I crossed the bridge to you.
You didn't play the part
You let the part play you and ego swallowed you whole.
You were free to go at any time,
I never made you stay
And the word I love you sounded tainted coming from hands that pressed my body to the ground.
Nothing bites as hard as reality
Except you, according to my neck at least.
I'm sorry we ever became lovers because since October the girl has changed but the moon has stayed the same.
And can I tell you something...
You never even ment a thing.

There is a thickness to the air here.
It deepens the colors of the sunset
to make up for the way it hides behind skyscrapers;
masses of brick and glass that join the sky at right angles,
Like Atlas and his children
and all his children's children gathered together
to hold up the earth we created,
The sky we created,
With all our city smells of restaurants
and power plants
and cigarettes.
Of course we’re addicted

We are all constellations
Traced from the electric lights we substitute for stars
Even though we know we cannot replace them.
We have to remind ourselves
There are stars out there somewhere,
There are stars out there somewhere,
There are scars out there somewhere,
There are scars somewhere,
And they bleed out of peaceful park fountains and
The city grew roots around them,
Fluorescent scar tissue pumping subway cars through
Tangled arteries carrying passengers
That are fifty-seven percent coffee, add a turbo shot of Business suit and
a serving of secondhand smoke.
Of course we’re addicted

There is a thickness to the air here.
It deepens the colors of the sunrise,
But we cannot see it from below the ground.
Of course we’re addicted

Before I could connect the dots
They became like stars
And sat on your cheeks
Painting the universe with scars.
Taking me to a place
Where rain drops elate
And sun dries the fields
Where the great trees yield
Seeds of yesterday's blessings.
Do you know knuckles tighten
Tears swell and bloom,
And vessels seem to cringe
When your name,
Like a knife
Is thrown across the room.
I hate the sour taste of resent on my tongue,
And the emptiness of words
Like the songs never sung.
You, like a cloud, hang too low
Like last night when they pried
So I swallowed the tears to let it go,
Heavy with regret.
Each one of my bones has your initials etched
And probably my forehead too
Because everyone seems to draw a line between me and you
Thicker then it ever grew on your side of the fence.
The truth behind us is as simple as flames,
One always burns faster, and nothing's to blame
But it's 5 pm and my hands have moved on
To someone else's back
And you may hold her hair back for a moment on your bed
But she will never understand the
Mountains in your mind
Or try to climb to sunrise and understand the lies
Like I did one Sunday morning.
I hope she never loves you
Because you deserve nothing more then the sting of the sea you refuse to walk along with me.

You can't break a heart that isn't healed from the last set of eyes.
A reminder from the moon to the stars
It's never too late for something beautiful
To fall from the sky
Into the palm of your hands.
There is a place across a river
Where the East meets what's west,
And all the children wait with bandages for cut wrists to heal in the sun before it sets.
I have a fear of setting in stone
Because you can only stare at the sun for so long
Before beauty and light causes tears.
Nothing beautiful,
Like an angel in the snow
Remains forever,
And I'm stuck in time
Because there's something going around the room
That I've avoided well so far
But a bird can't fly forever and neither can my heart
I have to fall at some point
Into someone one else's sun.