Suddenly, all those sad Decemberists songs
we sang on our beds, your car, the bus
to Heathrow, apply to us.
Well, except that one
about the chimney sweep whose love is dead
and the barrow boy whose love is gone
the Yankee soldier whose love is torn from him by war
the Odalisque whose lover is drowned
the double spy who trades a tryst in the  
greenery for documents, and microfilm too.

We are not the star-crossed William and Margaret
whose hazardous love provoked a cruel Queen,
their fates tangled in the roots of the Taiga.
We never made it to Grace Cathedral Hill
to watch the city lights in the cold New Year night.
I was more brine and **** and vinegar
than you knew.

I'll let you know if they ever write a song
for ill-timed confessions and bitten back words
and the way love can run out
like an empty tank of gas
halfway to the sea.

Oh my ever fragile bird
Do not fret your lovely mind
Your hearts wandering over mine  
Your words are in my head

Do not quiver your brow
Or bite your lip
Over the things we have
Not yet said

                         And how could I ever not need you?

With this connection so rare
Almost in describable
But I'll try my best
If you can bear
                          
               You are the crisp clean breeze of January

                             You are the smell of May at dusk
                                
                              You warm me with your July sun

                                    You fill me with October rush  


And please believe me when I say
We'll walk through a forest on a perfect summer day
Through the warmth, recite the Decemberists
And play me your beautiful tunes

                                                & baby stay
                                       up
                    with
me
                                                
                                  In the wake of

An  
                  early
                                      June
                                                       moon.

looking at each other
wrapped in two different
beds
we smiles, laugh, giggle
and seem happy
(it’s sickeningly cute)

we sing along to music
to regina spektor and the
decemberists
I don’t know all the lyrics
but she knows how to
sing

it’s a night to remember
I’m sure

in sixty years,
in thirty years
in fifteen
in ten

I’ll be thinking about
these great times

before everything happened
and nothing happened any-
more
before love died and happiness
stopped and youth wore away
on the rocks

I will remember the smiles
and the music and this night
like so many others will be
what keeps me going on for
the dark times to come

I was listening to The Decemberists- The Engine Driver when I couldn't help but write this down
NOTE: This is not the actual ending to the song.. Just a spin on it that I was compelled to jot down.



And I am a writer,
Writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
My bones
My bones


But my bones turn to paper
And all I end up doing
Is scratching you deeper
Deeper into the pillars
That pillars that support my soul
My soul
I've written so many pages
That my bones turned to paper
As if you were to ever support my soul
But I spose that's one thing about paper
It don't support much of anything
I let you crumple me
I turned you to paper
Guess my master plan to rid you from my bones
Backfired a little
For now I'm stuck in a crumpled heap
A crumpled heap
Because that ****** paper
Couldn't ever make me whole
Me whole

November 19th 2009
Marks the day I saw your spine
Hit the floor for the very first time
I only need people when I think I do
I was a fool to think I needed you
It’s the opposite of The Decemberists
You needed me to make you better
I blame myself for trying-
And every time I walk in on you crying
I think it’s something I did wrong
The smell of your breath is still strong
In the dreams I fail to dream as I watch what I once thought was steam sneak through your bedroom door
I can still smell those chemical dreams as I do the leaves on that cold november day
I found you lying in the den
You were going to die I just didn’t know when
I can see the red and blue flashing
It’s making my innocence fade like flash photography in a museum
Why can’t my life be preserved  with a sign that says please don’t do this
Too many signs for too many crimes
I’d need one for each mistake you made
I’d add another check to the chalkboard and remember my neck double wrapped around the umbilical chord
I wonder if you loved me then but I remember that you didn’t
Cause every time I try to read a book I look at the letters and they turn into something they are not
Just like us when you’re drunk and I’m smoking ***
I remember you never loved me at my monthly sonogram
Holes in my kidneys not quite as big as the holes in your heart
I was ****** over from the start
4 pounds and 11 ounces I could never stand up to you
Pretending you did what you had to do
Take another sip I dare you
Maybe it’ll make you feel brand new
And the next morning we’ll pretend it never happened because that’s what we always do
I’ll ignore the broken glass that sat on my chest as I tried to sleep and stabbed my mind as I tried to dream
About what we would be if I hadn’t found you that day in 2009
Would I still be doused in ignorance
Would I still crave your attention
Would I still be able to dream
Would I be haunted by my own retention
Would I drink a little less
Would I drink a little more
Would I still play in the leaves or believe you could be cured
You need me to make you better and it has made me worse-
I don’t throw out the **** I find in your purse-
I shove it down and swallow but innocence tends to follow

If I were 4 pounds again I’d have a stronger mind
I wouldn’t put any effort into being kind
I was so small you should’ve thrown me in the trash
I wouldn’t have to grow up in your mistakes tray of ash
I close my eyes and I’m 9 years old seeing red and blue,
8 years later and disaster still reminds me of you