I know my mirror is broken, I know.
As long as the ocean keeps coming back
and it's blue, it's like you were here.
And I can feel you and be blown
by the wind, and be brought back,
and be tossed around. What a tiny
vision, I know, trying to save yourself
from yourself. And the future bleeds.
I know I'm wrong, I know I am.
When I try to go out, -but you try.
When I try to turn white.
I like to imagine you
looking at the back of my head,
collecting flying leaves,
sitting inside the empty end of time,
transformation, like a butterfly
bursting the bubble, just reaching out
and grabbing trees, and sins, and this is
your way of saying I wont be around,
probably, I wont.
Dear me, I became aware so suddenly
that a self fulfilling prophecy is like
a cloudless sky and it gets you down.
That there is no empty space left
in the darkness, and it gets you down.
Who can say how much prettier you will look
tomorrow, distracted, playing your part,
learning how the flapping of your wings
affect the world around you; who is to know
if you are going to rule this out
as a superstition of a heart.
