When I write down your “nanananas” and “lalalas” I cannot make it sound like a melody: you have a voice and I only have fingers that cannot play the harpsichord feet that stumble over themselves, while yours stumble over strings and vowels and pretty breaths.
I prayed to God just so he would tell me how to explain the way you lace symphonies together white drugs laced with a more dangerous one you exhale vanilla and formaldehyde and your hiccups win first prize.
You remind me that we are all healing but we cannot all throw our bodies in Lynches River or Lake Pontchartrain because there are not enough black garbage bags.
You remind me not to swallow cement so I get filled up with ***** instead.
I hope that you do not drink too much water to make room for pink milkshakes and doughnut holes so honored to be inside you they reach up and hold your voicebox like a shooting star, I hope that you are selfish sometimes like when I read my words just as you would sing them.