I preface as such because if I was constantly complaining about the same person, I would never have the courage to do so… who wants to hear that after all. Him, as one experience of many I’ve been intimate with.
fours and sevens mean death
I count on my breaths, my sips, the number of my steps
and then it’s you again
I thought I had love all figured out
I hear the radio and it broadcasts you to me
jesus and stalin in the same person
but I’d take the crook of your arm over butterflies any day
a slow and cold dance in the rain
the sirens make me a terrible person to talk to
I’m afraid that time has made me hopeful again
so much so that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to hurt and hurt and hurt.