There is some work waiting to be done in the glass. There are prescriptions to count. I see wounds to lick and kiss goodnight. Where is the bottom of this cup? There is a box full of nameless critters. I hide them from my lovers. My lovers never see my bed. How did you get out of that box my lovely?
Adjust the volume. Make it just so far. Why did you make a run for it? Your papers are still here, in a mess over picture books and ribbons. You probably never run. After too many lonely nights you must have forgotten where I was. My maps are drawn by bloody buttons. What can be done with a memory full of holes? Pack my eyes up and send some sparks through that ball of yarn. You used to wrap me up in your eyelids. Jumping over the moon slowly, I danced for you. Pulling on the sweater, you would count on my progress... one, two, three, four.
It's been light years since the sky fell so perfectly.
Labels: Ungrid Newquirk, w.a.s.t.e