There's a dead place, oozing sedated thoughts and lingering phobias that don't match the sensibilities of our time together. Lethargic, I spend a trifle more than I hoped I would in the barter of our life moments that come in on tiptoe, taking us by storm. I see you there. Wide smiles and an upturned heart. When do you tire? Why don't you?
And you scratch open little tears in my skin, wriggling in like you know where you're going. I would hold up sign boards but I couldn't possibly be that forward. You know this don't you? The shape of our lives made out on our bed, a jumble of legs and arms, hearts on torn sleeves, eyes melting in the afternoon breeze. It's a poem, yes. Made of sweat and tunes. Like train wrecks and ruins. You and I are stories made from deep fires. And I'm quite sure I love you.