our problem is
[something about words.]
Part. 1. Start.
Well, really, I think our problem is:
The classroom desks scented yesterday,
lined with silver laughter and folded arms.
Hey, look, I’d like to tell you:
Remember that bridge we crossed barefoot
on a special Sunday we pretended to be lost boys?
It’s gone now.
(It was replaced by a cement walkway. Convenient for cyclists, apparently.)
Well, really, what can our problem be
besides you and your big fat reasoning
Your voice, however, I won’t tire of
You were flashy and much too wild
Dragged me onto a traveling circus troupe
and I was too blind to see all the colors
(maybe I was too scared)
You, and I, our problem is undoubtedly:
That hill behind my house where one day you leaned in
and with a liquid kiss you breathed
(I love you.)
Part. 2. Start.
Well, really, I think our problem is:
I never looked back that day I left town, a little after I’d shut you out of my room and bolted the door.
(I’m sure you’re wondering
Why my shoulders were sagged
and my back curved
my shirtsleeve wet
as you watched me drive away.)
I drank ink red as wine
and tried imagining you against the city skyline
but it was too indigo and not bright enough
I believe I should have said, rather reluctantly
with perhaps an ounce of dejection
I love you too
I’m not a sweet talker a mouth-washer
I don’t bury the dead
I’m not a dog who picks after crumbs
You, and I, our problem isn’t anything to blame
It is me
and I left you in the land of my birth
in the land of my dreams
in the land where I buried
Desks scented yesterday
Bridges not for cyclists
Bridges for lost boys
Circus troupes
Round round hills
and liquid kisses.
I checked them off
Like a shopping list
A recipe for happiness
Well, really, I believe that our problem
was left unsolved.
(But that means my door is ajar
and I’m waiting for your shadow to peek its nose between my painted toes.)
Part. 3. End.
Two thousand days ago, you phoned me from London to tell me your mother had died. Your throat sounded like a broken piano, the keys all skewed and set wrong, but your words were professional and clipped. You preferred not showing me your weak side anymore - best friends share many things, acquaintances reserve polite smiles and meeting-room nods.
Two thousand days ago, I changed my lock and threw out the now-useless spare key I’d had made on the spur of a moment, the inspiration of a second, the one I’d kept under my pillow and woken up to against my cheek everyday - it left dent marks in my skin but they heal. I spend my days sitting under morning’s slanted sunshine, painting incoherent splotches onto acid white canvases. Everything looks superficial.
Two thousand five hundred eighty -one days ago, I closed the door to your face and the cover to our highschool days, and liquid kisses don’t quench my thirst, not yet.
Well, really, if you ever ask me someday, I believe our problem is we never knew we had one to start with.
Part. 4. Unwritten.
Part. 1. Start.
Well, really, I think our problem is:
The classroom desks scented yesterday,
lined with silver laughter and folded arms.
Hey, look, I’d like to tell you:
Remember that bridge we crossed barefoot
on a special Sunday we pretended to be lost boys?
It’s gone now.
(It was replaced by a cement walkway. Convenient for cyclists, apparently.)
Well, really, what can our problem be
besides you and your big fat reasoning
Your voice, however, I won’t tire of
You were flashy and much too wild
Dragged me onto a traveling circus troupe
and I was too blind to see all the colors
(maybe I was too scared)
You, and I, our problem is undoubtedly:
That hill behind my house where one day you leaned in
and with a liquid kiss you breathed
(I love you.)
Part. 2. Start.
Well, really, I think our problem is:
I never looked back that day I left town, a little after I’d shut you out of my room and bolted the door.
(I’m sure you’re wondering
Why my shoulders were sagged
and my back curved
my shirtsleeve wet
as you watched me drive away.)
I drank ink red as wine
and tried imagining you against the city skyline
but it was too indigo and not bright enough
I believe I should have said, rather reluctantly
with perhaps an ounce of dejection
I love you too
I’m not a sweet talker a mouth-washer
I don’t bury the dead
I’m not a dog who picks after crumbs
You, and I, our problem isn’t anything to blame
It is me
and I left you in the land of my birth
in the land of my dreams
in the land where I buried
Desks scented yesterday
Bridges not for cyclists
Bridges for lost boys
Circus troupes
Round round hills
and liquid kisses.
I checked them off
Like a shopping list
A recipe for happiness
Well, really, I believe that our problem
was left unsolved.
(But that means my door is ajar
and I’m waiting for your shadow to peek its nose between my painted toes.)
Part. 3. End.
Two thousand days ago, you phoned me from London to tell me your mother had died. Your throat sounded like a broken piano, the keys all skewed and set wrong, but your words were professional and clipped. You preferred not showing me your weak side anymore - best friends share many things, acquaintances reserve polite smiles and meeting-room nods.
Two thousand days ago, I changed my lock and threw out the now-useless spare key I’d had made on the spur of a moment, the inspiration of a second, the one I’d kept under my pillow and woken up to against my cheek everyday - it left dent marks in my skin but they heal. I spend my days sitting under morning’s slanted sunshine, painting incoherent splotches onto acid white canvases. Everything looks superficial.
Two thousand five hundred eighty -one days ago, I closed the door to your face and the cover to our highschool days, and liquid kisses don’t quench my thirst, not yet.
Well, really, if you ever ask me someday, I believe our problem is we never knew we had one to start with.
Part. 4. Unwritten.