Brush drums equal sadness

and lack of memory

on the backs of young girls

when you spin in soft circles

with your tongue on me

and I think to myself

please stop for fear of...

me.

Please be afraid of this

tangle of what I have become

because tomorrow holds nothing

and tonight holds less.

The saxophone drones gently

while the boys click their heels

together three times and say

there's no place like

l o s t

and you and I are there,

separatly wandering

through these thoughts of serenity

never quite tangible.

Cigar voices sing to you,

eyes closed and forgetting

this night of nothingness.

I am vacant

and I can tell by your fingertips

you are, too.

But you dance like you might be filled

if I could think of the right word,

if I could think of any word

to take you into my chest and keep you.

But I am much too empty.

10/28/2001

Posted on 10/28/2001
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