Third floor mattress on the deck
AOL dial tone beside the desk
Flecks of life beneath bare feet
Doughnut boxes and newsprint fingers
Lyrics on the cracked white wall
Flailing heart on a sleeve
A gross misunderstanding of nostalgia

Listening to her having sex downstairs
With Aaron or Lance or Derek or whatever his name is
Listening to Elliott Smith when she isn’t
When they aren’t
Roman Candle
Intimacy on her unmade bed
On her wooden floor
In a red plush chair in the corner by the door
Without a single touch of pale warm skin
Without a caress of cold black hair
The shades of 2:00 AM
Two sets of blue eyes that don’t twinkle in the moonlight
In the lamp light made soft as sunset on a beach by a bra and concert tee
Acoustic guitar and a uneasy voice breaking but not yet broken
From the other side of the wall
From the street two flights below
From just behind my right ear
From everywhere we are, aren’t, want to be, are to scared to go
Words we know in arrangements we could never pull off
Like the clothes on our backs

Back on my own
Views of nothing from the window
A city I’ll never know from the inside
Like the girl I lust to feel
An empty inbox
Tangible silence
Fractured, perfect, messed up, a child

Roman Candle
Travel with me up the stairs
Stay with me for the night
When you’re wanted
When you’re not
Never a moment you are not missed

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