put away being. your hands, broken instruments, soaking lazily in the hollow glow of a sun that does not shine for you. your hands, made for grief, made of grief,
not fearing the sea, you who greet the waves
like an old friend, inviting them for coffee, lighting their cigarettes for them, you who welcome the waves into your embrace,
it is foolish to worry, much worse to hope, that you'll make it through november, it is always
you on the train
you on the sidewalk
you on the stage
you on the couch
you in a dream
you in a mirror
one big shadow, and one small. you think love
is something that happens to other people.
your heart aches for freedom so you go looking
for it in the wrong places, the deathlike medicine cabinet or the first train to nowhere, you who always want what you can't have and that's more more more
when all you do is ache. when you're not sure
if you can stop, if you deserve to stop, you who speak of war and peace and love and death, you who do not separate them with a comma. you, who have risked it all, for one minute in the sun, warmth on your warped skin, uv rays in your teeth, one august cicada love song, stumbling in a kaleidoscope, under the harvest moon —
to be utterly wild, to be forgiven, to be reckless, to be fireworks, when you have risked it all to stay on the tightrope suspended between your most feral dream and a beautiful drunken night
