I don’t know the faith on this street,
but I like the music,
and I will swear to you later
that every single one of those guys
didn’t need a heartbeat to play
a long trilogy of bad intentions.

Bad intentions with lungs made out of gold.

I don’t know exactly how that works,
but I’ve never really been much of a genius
with the impossible biology
I’m prone to making up on the spot.

It’s easy to talk to you.
It’s just another matter altogether
if I have to remember the sandwich shop menu
where I wrote everything down along the edges.

Where the hell did I even put that thing?

This room is a mess,
and I never get to travel with someone
who isn’t living someone else’s life,
in a car with scars to prove it ain’t afraid of the dark.

Don’t think a mountain of love letters
that read like a stage play version of homicide paperwork
can’t crash down,
and take you out.

Snap your fingers.
It’s just like that.
Snap them again.
You’re in bed but hardly safe there.

You can’t steal my wallet,
take back the ninety-nine dollar engagement ring,
leave me to die with all these American boys,
and then expect me to believe
you’ve been worried sick about me.

I don’t blame you for being lonely,
popular and impossible to please.

Remember when we bailed your mom out of jail?
It’s probably genetic.

You dance like a lunatic who wishes
Prohibition would come back,
grow three limbs and keep you content
for the rest of your beautiful days.

I walk like every one of these streets
is running out of ink,
time and lyrics that fill the cracks
in the productive sidewalk.

What the hell were we thinking last summer?

Were we thinking?

Or were those the days
when I still went up the steps to your room
two at a time.

You make remembering anything pretty unappealing.

08/25/2012

Posted on 08/26/2012
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard