3 score and ten, late winter hanging on like the bitter kiss of lovers not ready to die, there isn't much I could tell you about the morning sky or dying alone you haven't already figured out on your own, in a car bruised and cracked, the skin of knuckles after too many fights to stay inspired, while patterns take shape above my visions: the still living ghosts of the cars we crashed, the kisses we forgot to photograph, the photographs we forgot to kiss, the wolves we kept at bay only to find them sitting across our dinner tables asking about the weather, next week the same as this one, and for at least five more weeks after that one, if you believe in that sort of thing, I still don't know how to talk to people about what matters to them, and I wake up hearing my grandfathers last few coughs every few hours, I once thought I could burn solutions into my hands for all the problems they were not willing to recognize, now I wonder if I just didn't believe hard enough in the healing process, my dead eyes watching the turn of conspiracies between a pale girls shoulder blades as she sleeps and thinking about the exceptions to all rules, except this one:
If I wake you up, there will be hell to pay