I wrote this in a minute and I haven’t read it back yet.

She’s got legs too thin to think about,
a maudlin pout, worthy of your finest wine
how I pine for her, baby. Step back into line.
Plug the aux cord in, play some jazz into my
right ear, right hear, again we can begin
to dance a dance considerate to few
if only you knew, who.
Nails bitten, written all over your back
in red welts, you can’t help
the way the stinging makes you smile.
Stay a while.
Leave love out of this, it’s not enough
it’s not an excuse or a reason or a
this is why I’m such a horrible guy…
Babe you can keep words like that
dribbling out of your one trick hat,
you’ve got green on the knee’s of your
starched white jeans,
unbelievably selfish pleas
to forgive. Let me live.
I’d sooner slice the tips of your fingers
with a spade, make it easier to bury you.
Fifty feet down, always fifty, spot on.
Like four in the morning,
Illusively popular numbers always used
to sound poetic, I get sick
of hearing it. Life is messy,
it doesn’t round up to whole numbers.
Burnt umbers.

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