I want to scream
pathetic little angels
on your doorstep
that hover just above
the sound of the wishing well
that's the palm of your hand

close behind a velvet
shades of longing and forgetting
since that last time
we didn't matter to one another
above the records playing
and the dancefloor we
leave with the dents of our feet.

I want to smear the smokes stacks
we made on a marmalade Sunday
before an ear infection beat us
up against palm trees
down under the freeway sign.
Where we were in the parking lot
it was technically Monday.

12/29/2006

Posted on 12/30/2006
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