these houses are our tiny mansions, and we're framed behind their wrought iron fences. this mind is full of poetry but with nothing to write. i had an archived message of your voice across some ancient telephone wires "i'll be home soon" you'd say over and over without ever a change, even now when you're far from the same. when i erased it, where did it take your voice i wonder? can something just vanish forever, so quickly with such permanency? could i ever go find it, that small bit of you. find it between books on the library shelf, or maybe it's been buried in the dirt behind the lilacs out back, or embedded in the concrete and brick of our old school perhaps. maybe it's so far away that i would forget what i was searching for if ever i found it. wait, have i forgotten what i was searching for? what did i ever want to find, i am unsure.
i always slept through church. long before the autumn leaves lay on the street like little copper pennies across our bedroom floor. bar change which clattered in the rush to be naked to the bones. if i don't believe in the afterlife, can i still come with you whenever it is you go? i remember smoking cigarettes in junior high by the river. i used to kiss this girl between drags but i always waited for her to ask (i always wait) and i must admit i'm lost in the open sea as of late. when you stay the night i rarely sleep 'cause i would never waste my arms around you with all that dreamin' of nothingness when there was something so close. i've always been that one percent but i would give you my one hundred, and when these chemicals subside that heart still aches just the same. what the fuck was she drinkin' that first night she was untrue, i guess we were young but fought problems which were much too serious, all i wanted was for us to be ourselves. and as quickly as it ended you stole that heart from underneath my nose. but its okay, i don't mind that you don't know as long as your lungs are close enough to inhale my thoughts which pump the blood that your heart so closely holds.
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