Please don't call me,
Write me,
Spinning your lies and illusions,
Of how we could have loved one another.
But I just couldn't measure up
I'm sure if you saw me now, you'd understand
I think life would be quicker- dangerous
But the lies at my windowsill
Keep me from opening myself to the sky.

You'd feel better if I weren't so blantantly myself,
I'd be more entertaining if the syllables I spoke
Were short, sexual, gleaming...
However, I must admit,
You held me for a second too long.
And I prayed you'd see past my smoke and shake
That I'd reside in you capillaries until one morning...

You'd awake to find me living as your shadow
and embrace the way my hips fill your hands.

But I have never felt less contagious than when the clock ticks. Rolling numbers by. I am nothing without the music in my skin.

I'd fall again or give up again, but I have a spell on my ankle and another on my back that says, "Never yield."

03/27/2005

Author's Note: This is a tangle of Regina Spektor, Carina Round, and myself.

Posted on 03/28/2005
Copyright © 2024 Beth K Hannah