mexicans at the laundromat in tall hats
holding guitars
hipsters man the coffee shops and the
sweet scent of weed sticks to the dewy air
a thick white fog crawls over the hill
and i would love the chance to be where you are
how many years can the flesh ache
a dull rapping on the heartbox
i keep waiting for someone to throw a blanket
over the whole room
to put out the light and scoop my heart off
the stained carpet
but my future is all bareboned empty rooms
an occasional visitor helps me forget that
there is nothing to hang on the walls
these are the middle chapters
every night it gets harder to give up
2 comments:
everyone's life looks better from the distance sustained by romantic notions.
you are quite right, sister
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