My high school english teacher called me
the next William Faulkner, a statement
that would have no relevance for years.
Unbeknownst to you, the people you
need to know walk casually into
bars, and the people you want to
know , slip away.Without breathing,
you collapse between the two.
Growing up doesn't happen until
you hold a woman who has lost
her heart inside your own, and dry
her tears with her hair, hoping to
make sense of what is inevitable.
I'm just a dirt bag. I am swollen,
watching you break down in front
of me, and hoping that you'll do it
again, not out of pain, but out of
promise. I am selfish in my touching,
but with sincere and pure intentions
built upon histories of misplaced love.
Can this many emotions live
within one person, within two,
within three, within hundreds,
mourning the same life taken from
us like fools, and far too soon.
Driving thousands of miles to
and from my heart.
Buried 6 feet below a rose of
blind innocence.
Damnit and all other words meaning
so.
How important was it when you
sat next to me in a dark room, in
a less than stellar art gallery, and
breathed the same air as i did?
How important was it when you told
me that I was so much for just being myself?
And now your friend pulls his perfect
lips from mine. his troubled, and spoken
for, and perfect lips, like the way i'd imagine
the finger tips of angels to glow. are they your
fingers?
and i can only think
of her lips covered in tears
shed for you. do you want
us to cry?
and i can only hope he
returns, and you return
and we all return to
before.
i am just a dirtbag.
i am swollen.
i am alone.
