nevermind

too many birds flew over my capital city; i must surrender.

we never smell quite as good as we think we do,
and our voices never roll as sexily as we think,
but that's never stopped us.

we demand to choose our own finish lines,
we'll never rest until it is time to,
each of us saving one last long distance collect call
to finish dousing old flames
when we feel their heat too strongly from memory.
that's right,
a thousand mile ring
just to say,
"i hate you,
now pay for this call."
careful, now, not to say love by accident.

the morning finds our bodies washed up thirty miles west.
but truly this is no portrait of gloom i wish to paint,
only another strange picture;
the hope, you see, lies in the very act of creating it -
the light in all this rests in the fact
that i cared enough to speak at all.

true despair is silent.
i, conversely, cannot shut up.
never picture me writing without a smile.

nevermind.