Let's Talk About New York
Somewhere between the caffeine stains and ink, muddy and bright on my calloused fingers
Somewhere, at one point fifteen on my wristwatch; somehow, one that does and the supposed difference are
blood ink buried between lines and blues adrift sequenced pages.
So it doesn't take a miracle to eat pb & j.
So a condom is not needed to fuck the life out of the night.
It doesn't have to be today, and tomorrow's no good either - and I am not required to give a damn -
I don't have to imagine pink satellites beneath grey skies. I don't need to moan to every snore, every sigh.
I used to play better than the whole block around mine; I could F the G from E and the minors and sharps.
(here's to believing I was deafening while I barfed).
I'd try to learn and then discern the notes and the words apart.
If looks could harm, you have your magic strings attached to limbs and arms
and I have my charm.
Exacting. Vindictive. Distorted.
We were pixie dusts and embers. We were a pair of sinners and liars
(I lied about looking back. You sinned when you held back.)