An older one, with some editing. Homesick and lonely.
i've already given up on myself (once twice) but the third time is the charm
we stood on the hills in oakland and threw caution to the wind
but damn i've got a lousy arm
you used to tell stories about us versus the world but our silhouettes were never heroic
hunched shoulders messy hair angles of fear and exhaustion
(were you trying to tell me something?)
i miss when we used to lie on the floor and you would lay your head on my stomach and hum
breathless almost hesitant filth into my bellybutton
and i wish we had reached that point in the future where you would've driven all night just to meet me in the morning
(the sunrise was spectacular all burning carbon monoxide and carcinogens)
and sing me happy birthday happy happy birthday
off-key, but the beat would be perfect
i know you as a kind of perfect
because we are failures bound only by silent elevator rides crowded against the walls by the mass of our disappointments
because i can smell your body ripening into sweet age that is not for me to know and have
and because your nighttime noises in my memory keep me awake with the immovable ache of our distant proximity
-you turn the earth beneath my feet but
i keep still
it is as though you decided in a snit that movement never existed for me at all
(such exiles from the continuity of our reality can be found in every village, in basements, under bridges
they are not to be touched or marveled at
they are to be left alone and pitied)
and I don't regret any of this you-inflicted destruction
only that away from you is the only place left
and oh, oh
how i wish it wasn't.
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