You're waving your arms. You're trying to convince me that words are more than words. You're cracking open peach pits and looking for flies.
You're wrecking the car, darling.

We're finding places in the pavement to rest our heads, and all I can hear is: I told you so.

I'll risk the dying. I'll risk the trouble. I'll risk the risk. I'll take the keyboard and smash it against the wall. I'll call it a poem, and I'll miss you anyways.

Here, from the cracking ribs rattling toward something so close, so cutthroat, to the moment where you finally get to watch the bliss bleed out.

It's all just one big blood-pumping, give-me-now balancing act, and the things that see the walls of your fist are the feeling you can't shake.

So I will hold you tight and make a lunatic's prayer of you, the world in gloss and the *** you said made you holy. It's useless, but I still try.

Our hells may have been the same, but our heavens weren't.