Virgin Moon Phases

Names From My Bedbugs

I'm joining with nature, you can't get rid of me; I'm watching from the wake of a cold front, I am the air you breathe.
And if the ocean is teeming with fish, hell, you've disappointed me. I can cry all that I want, you still can't get rid of me.
I'm a throat on a friend of a friend, so why don't you ring me? I guess you can't talk on the phone, if not even to my face, or look in my eyes, so why don't you kill me?
I'm a pretty petal, a pearly white leaf, with all my folds and in-corrections, looking for my relief. A stem you could snap, regrow a new me, until I cripple, fold in on my feet.
At least you could watch me like I wait, admiration, since I'll always be there for you, there like when you nosedived into his twisted reverie. I know you wish that I'd just break from your honesty, but weather, my dear, is something that's been good to me. I will always be watching from under the cork tree, at nine in the afternoon, where I've kept myself, running from lions with my nose to the backbone, ear to the cheek. I'm listening for signs of a heart full of caraphernalia for me. It doesn't matter what that I think it might be, or what you might think of me, we're similar at least in one way, because you still can't get rid of me.