I still think of you.
This city lives and
dies, and I think of you.
You're a horrible bastard,
but the only man
I've ever loved.
I am just a woman,
one woman in history,
of billions of boxes of
women, packaged like
a bad spell cast in the
wood of burning trees.
I drove you to the edge
of the cliff, but you
took the wheel and
threw me off.
Didn't we predict
this in dreams of
burning irons, bird
cages, and unfulfilled
schemes?
The universe never ends;
its an electric current
that moves
the human race forward
and ignites the chemicals
in the wired eyes of mice.
I remember you held my hand
gently in the parking lot of
Day's Inn and I almost had
an orgasm. That is grotesque
reality, and I'd do anything
to feel it again.
I don't believe you've stopped
thinking of me. Because if
I know anything, it's love.
And we had it. In our fucked
up way of loving.
I don't want a job in an office,
or a Harvard degree. I want
to start a revolution with you.
I want to bite through
the bars of a prison in
Russia for you.
I want to see you on a platform
near the water and dive us
together into the water
and ignite the current
of humanity towards
the good end.
the good, good end.
