and now you are dust among my fingertips. and now i am running into the traffic. because i saw you again on the porch lighting a blunt. and i am running towards your ghost because it called me beautiful again.
maybe when you die. really die. you're bones will be in my box. under my bed. until then i am still thinking of sitting on your bedroom window sill with you. laughing with me as if nothing happened. and i am replacing these memories with 3am calls to someone new. someone no one like you.
why do i want them to be like you.
i feel sick. now more than ever there was a house fire in my dreams. and you were there. nothing happened to you, nothing hurt you.
so this memory of you won't die.
and i don't know what you look like anymore.
