Our arguments have begun to sound like musical notes
on a guitar that needs fresh strings,
there is nothing new about them. I cry about the same **** thing.
You look better now that childhood's run past you,
the round cheeks remain
but heartbreak means more than pouring sand in a girl's eye.

For every twenty things you would like to say,
there are a million that you already have. I listen to your
song crescendo and wane and the
rhythm of your heart seem to fixate, on itself, no longer on her,
I think it must be the most beautiful kind of hurt.

The worries did you well,
took their form in lyrics like a group of deep-settled wrinkles
aging the process, aging wine, can only get better
when you read the ugly things I write.
And although you look good
wearing the "about thirty-two months ago at five o'clock" shadow

I will not miss
the year you turned twenty-six.