The pressure of it feels nice
My finger between
The pages that bind (me)
I hadn’t said yes
I hadn’t said anything
And the thing is
While I was trying to save him
I didn’t know the poison he’d fill me with
What did we speak about last night?
As the wine flowed freely and the air was more smoke than breathe
Were we life’s philosophers
Or shit shooters
Or some poetic melange of the two?
I don’t much remember.
I keep all sort of things in boxes.
Most damaging I think is
People where they used to be,
Instead of where they are.
It keeps them (& me) small.
And what’s funny is
They’re constantly showing me that they don’t belong in boxes.
But each time they get out, I forget they escaped, and I pack them right away again.
Where my brain says they belong.
While you were busy being flattered
You let him steal away in a piece of your mind.
His name is memory now.