Sunday, January 20, 2013

crashing couches. burning bridges.

you say that this time you don't want to (go). but my heart is telling me that you'll disintegrate if you don't (go). and something else is telling me that you survive on those couches (los angeles, new york) and you thrive on those chances (wandering, returning). but this time this could be different. your reel is spinning, couch to couch and i watch it play out and it watch you buy your tickets and i watch your head shake no you don't want to (go). but you do because i can only give you half of that and i must give you more than a couch. and your thoughts led you into a cage, but it could have been a den (trapped or hibernating?). when you pack you pack your flask and lighter. and i'll sob because i'm no longer a fighter (for your lungs and liver). though i was, i retreated because you felt that sword along your back and those needles in your ears and it made you heavy. like this bridge we built so that we could (go). anywhere. but i came here and you came along and that cold made you less strong. bridges of love letters. came down word by word and you've got that lighter just in case and that flask just in case it goes the other way and you watched me let it all (go). and you let it all (go). where you're understood and warm.

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