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rained-on parade Aug 2018
There's really something in the way
you breaking my heart ends up
sounding like a love song.
But I haven't stopped loving you once.
rained-on parade May 2018
You wanted a love like in the movies;
rain drenched white shirts, palms covered
in daisy pollen; I love you more than--
a phone call, long distance, your fingers
curling the telephone wire like you're pulling me
towards you
like a fibre optic pheromone.
Soundtracks of a jazz piano, and old jukebox hits,
flared skirts and Mary Jane shoes, square dancing.

But most of the time, we don't get to choose
the colour of the bedsheets. In this story,
I know you're going to leave me. I can sense
the zoom of your eyes, rolling away from me.
The lighting in the room, like the ones where something
awful is about to happen: a sad, sick orange
like a cheap sunset; the music, or lack thereof,
the way you bite your lip like you're about to
break my heart.

You look to the ground, and I know this is where
the narration will start;

this is the story of the first time
someone broke my heart.  
She's going to look up at me
and say the words,
It's all over-

and in a jump frame
the thunderclap will mask the sound
of my heart shattering, the sob disappearing
into my throat.

You wanted a love like in the movies,
we all did.

But then the rain came, and the flowers
drowned in their beds.
You left your umbrella by the doorstep,
I hope you don't catch a cold.
I'm not sure why.
rained-on parade Mar 2018
I want to write you something,
but the words don't spill
out of my mouth
the way they used to.
I still need you but I don't want you now.

Not sure why this song is playing in my head.

Dreaming of You- The Coral
rained-on parade Mar 2018
You walk through these streets
like you think you know what you want.
But tell me honestly,
inside the pockets of your coat
your fingers never uncross,
do they?

I drown you in photographic film
and sometimes I wonder how time
stands still in a painting.
In the middle of the bazaar, you stood
like a painting
while people moved around you
like an overexposed reel of film
and time still stands still to this day

You're coughing it all out; winter
on your lips and spring in your lungs.
Drink me.
I am a tincture of a daydream.
The sun is always brighter, my dear.

Our hands interlace in the darkness
and melt away with the consequences of time.
You are a bottle of something precious.
Put me to sleep, sing
me to sleep.

Undo the buttons of your dress
and wear away with the night.
Shed this old layer of skin
and something about rebirth
we can tell beautiful lies
but how long before the bread soaks up the milk
and the blood on the carpet
seeps into
the wood.

The ice on the lake
can't hold up this dream anymore.
You're a hallucination
and all I needed.
I don't know if I'll ever finish this.
rained-on parade Jan 2018
When his hands dance in the night,
the moon quiets down to sleep.
Maybe he's awake at this hour again,
who knows what the day will bring.
I'm in love with the absence of hurting;
like this; my shins splitting with dancing
so much with my own insecurities.
rained-on parade Nov 2017
Go on, dance with me now.
Your hands ticking away time       like a drumbeat,
               your radius hitting the table
with a knock
              on every door that has my heart     hidden
somewhere between dreams.              This orange
              October     sky, your laugh like       an earth
losing its spin,           axis alias         to your tongue.
               Forget me now then, we were never a race-
burnt asphalt                   into your name, I was only
               a ship with a suicidal anchor,
crashing turntables         like the surface of the sea,
              our song stuck now in the echoes
                                                          ­     of the Atlantic.
You write lovesongs that make no sense
My lovesongs make no sense anymore.

rained-on parade Sep 2017
You fall out of love like a habit.
Nobody told you that even when they say
'there are no wrong answers',
there's always one that rings all the wrong bells.
You say, 'Maybe strawberry ice cream is my favourite',
and suddenly alarms go off in his head
'How? What? Nobody likes strawberry icecream!
This one is defective! Return to Sender!'

This one is defective.
You were mass produced
on a supply line for antsy, lonely nineteen-year olds.
This was their best year yet; the whole world is aching
but we're sorry to inform you but
Models made after 1995 are no longer supported.

To the scrapyard, then.
You fall and tumble and crawl out of love
like it's out to get you.
Like it's got its teeth in you,
nails tearing into flesh,
holding your ankles and begging you
to stay.

I don't quite remember myself, or you, anymore.
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