Cheeks flushed. I've got dirty little secrets tucked away
underneath, crushed.
My humble Venus, something sways,
the trees, brush and leaves gust.
We're on our dune, lust and trust.
Astray. Why do you touch and play?
I've got heartburn.
I've got nothing much to say.
I've got so much to do, but gumption fades.
And if you work hard enough,
you, too, will stop giving a fuck someday.
Baritone creaking. Standing sideways on the broken path.
That's about the time I felt the ocean splash.
Ebb and flow. You're playing with my convulsions,
and my hope has passed.
Every joke and laugh exposes throats to chokes and gags,
and I'm already coughing enough as is.
Scoffing. My crutch dragging.
We climbed mountains together.
Mostly you stood on my shoulders and looked out to the heavens.
Chamomile tea, with an ounce of confection.
No, it's too late. I'm burning the world down.
Turning a girl's frown into a permanent mural now.
Getting my rocks off. Cursively curse the town.
Purging my patience.
And maybe there's another reason to look to the sky when the churches are vacant.
And you? You're nervously pacing.
So take a picture before it all gets turned into pavement,
before tonight is a blur for the vagrants,
before I author my cobblestone opus.
Because I've never looked so pretty,
and you've never bothered to notice.
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