Wednesday, February 9, 2011

I dreamed about new york again last night

Yesterday, you said
“I feel like getting back to myself, “
we sat still for hours talking about moving

The purple tape player sits on a stack of maps
paused on directions out of reach,
wish we could go back

You’re alright and terrible at the same time
but part of me is afraid to listen
I’m sorry I can’t pick you up

The shower stays on empty, and so
we grow cold, waiting.

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