Saturday, November 07, 2009

We Don't Communicate.

I talk to you in front of a mirror
That did not show my face.
I bought the mirror from an antique shop
In Warrington, Mississippi,
Where my grandfather fought in the war in the 40s,
Where he lived and died and lived again.

It is November, my feet are heavy with dread,
I told you sorry once,
I told you a thousand times.
You can’t see in front of you.
You can’t see behind you.

The green grass is growing beneath our feet,
Everywhere around the world,
We are walking,
Walking like there’s no tomorrow,
Walking like we’ll never walk again.

I talk to you in my mind,
Trying to make you understand,
The feelings inside me,
That brush like paintings on rinds of stone.
That brush like a wind brushing my hair.
You are here. You are not.
You say you love me,
That you won’t refuse to think about me.
I don’t know what anything means anymore.

You borrow my brown jacket because the cold
Is too hard to take.
I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.
Your friends steal my words.

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