Step out into the rain
to throw your head back,
tear your chest open
and scream all the congestion out.

You hurry towards the back of the building
before they know you're alive.
Take out a pen, jot down your will
and pray for love to kill you.
Not that you need to worry,
it's really the only way us True Romantics can die.
(And if it isn't, our friends will skew the truth to fit our legacies.)

This is what happens when you wear that prickly shade of shady
and mutter sidelong snarky comments from the eye of the storm.

You're spinning through the depths of some piece of water you've not seen before.
Your breath is picking up speed,
your heart is a drumbeat you barely recognize and there's a smell around you can't distinguish.

This is how you learn to live.
This is how the rain takes over your limbs like they're puppet strings.
This is how you become swept away in another stupid torment of love.

And maybe all you can do is corner yourself.
Maintain your poise as you turn yourself in;
another lipstick pose; another revelation.

And maybe all you should do is throw up your hands,
call your own bluff, call out the name of god and
pray someone has mercy on you.

Pray someone can listen long enough to remember
when you had reasons not to give up.

04/12/2011

Author's Note: As always, I quite enjoy collaborating with her.

Posted on 04/12/2011
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