once again my head is buried in the sand,
and all the cigarettes i smoked and all the hearts i broke
had you feeding the whole pack to me out of the palm of your hand.
it was a stroke of luck that i lucked out, clucked out like a chicken without a head,
no direction where to go and using my  feet to guide me instead.
and it was a stroke of genius that struck me out,
we twisted words we crossed arms
we bit tongues until bloOD WAS RUNNING DOWN THE SIDES
of our chins like a mudslide
and the hairs on our skin
prickled up with anxiety when we realized that this mortality is more/less a gift than a blessing,
so i'm done second guessing everything that i see.
i'm relapsing back into hiccups and cigarettes and you're relapsing back into me.
how am i to trust my eyes when the foundation of everything i once believed is now a pile of dirt?
twenty seven seconds left on the microwave and you took them for granted
just like the garden you planted to try to feel alive and alert,
but what would you with twenty seven seconds on your death bed
screaming happy crying hurt
sending fists and laughter bouncing off walls