it's nothing but a liquor store that tempts me knowing my age is under the minimum it is willing to wage me page onto my body reconnect these invisible lines so that i may cross cotton candy skies again i'm hanging onto you like a crucifixmedallions like faith will hold this bloody mary's tears back from revenge
i trace life lines in the palms of my hands running finger prints of forever up my skin tattooing my veins with your kisses like heroine you’re the sweetest high my third eye has ever seen
i'm a short book, one you couldn't possibly be interested in. outdated. riddled with lies. repetitious. unillistrated. but i still dream of kisses. every morning i realize i still don't know anything about love. i'm like a bad family of books. idiots and mad cousins; orphaned grandchildren; dreamy geniuses; stained tile; running water; juvenile magazines; a pilgrim. i have not outgrown my childhood freckles or enthusiasms. for some people, history is simply what your wife looks good standing in front of. recorded memorabilia. i love the taste of other people's words in my mouth. we are people whose dreams run in particular ways.
what i give you is today's edition. tomorrow may be different.