zebrasindenver

Easter is in the oven,

Sunday is in my glass,

and you are sitting on the couch,

far away, but just close enough.

Wine, and we shall eat.

Spring smells like shit in this dirty fucking town,

This dirty town springs to life from shit,

Shit this town is living dirt.

Shit town lives.

Shit.

I scream at the light and kick at the wind,

I need my heart back or a new one.

Give me your tears as i need to wash off this anger, and the taps have been soldered shut.

Old wine will keep us at bay,

Me, my heart and your hopes.

I will wait on my wooden throne,

my glass will be full and dark.

For one hour you will come,

and we can be full.

And tomorrow, i will leave you.

Alone.

And here it is this violent wind,

 knocking at my door again,

bringing you and your person,

your bags of hopelessness left at the door as you walk so slowly in.

Fall into my arms, and out of your own heart,

you are a mess and i am barely able to string myself together,

 for just a month has past without a word on your behalf.

But the flowers are beginning to grow,

and tomorrow is spring.

Here i am again, and the two of you lay almost sleeping,

 i am done and you ask for more, this is all i have,

i am empty, lifeless and satisfied,

there is always tomorrow,

we beg for more,

we hope.

Let me exist between words,

the space between thoughts,

let me at the least be intangible,

nothing but a sweet non presence,

a memory, or less,

an idea.

I put you in the bath and sit writing,

the lights are dim and the cigarette burns in the ashtray,

some music rings in the distance,

some wine is in my cup,

and i think of you laying there wet and naked,

but i don’t come,

you ask me to open the door,

but i wait till you come to me,

till i can kiss your damp skin, your smell so gorgeous,

i am so thirsty for you.

She is so forgotten,

yet so pretty and clean,

an art director of sorts,

a pretty lady.