How else would I communicate? I would sit in the back of a quiet café with my shaded eyes on the door and wait for you to approach after tracing my steps through the cluttered streets which keep the neighbors anxious. I will tape an envelope underneath the park bench by your house. Inside will be the location where you may leave me the address of the next exchange. There will be no words shared. Nothing left behind but that familiar feeling; that side of the bed still warm. I will communicate by ESPN - tomorrow's losing baseball scores in alphabetical order from city of origin will tap out a morose code love letter to you; telepathy can be picked up and heard on some cell phones. The leading cause of death of old people is the loss of their spouse. I just made that stat up, but doesn't it seem real? Can't there be a bond so strong between two people that their life spills out of them like a shattered vase? - or maybe I'm thinking of a rough-housed kiddie pool... And how else would I communicate? I'd serenade your irises. Send them dashing back and forth before it all goes away. I'd drink you in like warm iced tea on a warmer day, dream you up like the lie that you are, like the lie people believe because they want it to be true. I'd send letter by carrier pigeon, and shoot it down before it got near. I'd float out a message in a bottle weighed down with rocks. I'll leave the note with invisible ink in the middle of your print tray so no one else will find it. I'll place the dispatch on your desk before setting a fire to the drapes. My toes in the sand I'll lay your name out in script, with the tides as acting eraser, I'd walk away from the dawn and leave for you to decrypt the million silicon particles lying in wait; the words longing for discovery, like your jeans once unzipped
How else would I communicate?
I would sit in the back of a quiet café with my shaded eyes on the door and wait for you to approach after tracing my steps through the cluttered streets which keep the neighbors anxious.
I will tape an envelope underneath the park bench by your house. Inside will be the location where you may leave me the address of the next exchange. There will be no words shared. Nothing left behind but that familiar feeling; that side of the bed still warm.
I will communicate by ESPN - tomorrow's losing baseball scores in alphabetical order from city of origin will tap out a morose code love letter to you; telepathy can be picked up and heard on some cell phones.
The leading cause of death of old people is the loss of their spouse. I just made that stat up, but doesn't it seem real? Can't there be a bond so strong between two people that their life spills out of them like a shattered vase? - or maybe I'm thinking of a rough-housed kiddie pool...
And how else would I communicate? I'd serenade your irises. Send them dashing back and forth before it all goes away. I'd drink you in like warm iced tea on a warmer day, dream you up like the lie that you are, like the lie people believe because they want it to be true.
I'd send letter by carrier pigeon, and shoot it down before it got near. I'd float out a message in a bottle weighed down with rocks. I'll leave the note with invisible ink in the middle of your print tray so no one else will find it. I'll place the dispatch on your desk before setting a fire to the drapes.
My toes in the sand I'll lay your name out in script, with the tides as acting eraser, I'd walk away from the dawn and leave for you to decrypt the million silicon particles lying in wait; the words longing for discovery, like your jeans once unzipped
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