i always seem to be sitting in the middle of intersections like a traffic light that hasn't hung itself yet, always seem to be waiting in the middle of the ghost town of where our love was first built. there's a hospital down the road where the waiting room chairs are much more morbid than the hospital beds and every electric heart rate line sitting on the screen of the heart monitors flatten, make long beeping sounds like an alarm clock, like a wake up call; they make long beeps like the ringing i hear inside of the phone when i call the owner of the voice mail i've seem to have made a home out of. they took every place we kissed and turned it into a church that closes on Sundays and holds a choir full of people that lost their voice in their own war. i've been in the line for the confessional for about two years now because every time i go up to say how badly i want you to feel it back, i let the girl wearing your t-shirt cut in front of me. the sidewalks only seem to crack when they remember how it felt when you walked on them, when you gave the ground its purpose. one of these nights the traffic lights will come to their senses, drop into the intersection and crumble right next to me because it's not like they have anything to stop or at least slow down because this is a ghost town, & nothing is coming back.