|
you crawled into my bed |
|
like some sort of giant insect |
|
and i found myself spellbound |
|
at the sight of you there |
|
cocooned in my room, |
|
beautiful and grotesque and all the rest of that bug stuff |
|
bluffing your way into my mouth |
|
behind my teeth, reaching for my scars |
|
that night we got kicked out of two bars |
|
and laughed our way home |
|
that night you leaned over |
|
and threw up into your hair |
|
and i thought |
|
i would offer you my pulse |
|
if i thought it would be useful |
|
i would give you my breath |
|
except |
|
the problem with death is that you have |
|
some hundred years and then they can |
|
build building on your only bones |
|
100 years and then your grave is not your own |
|
we lie in out beds, and our graves |
|
unable to save ourselves from |
|
the quaint tragedies we invent |
|
and then undo from the stupid circumstances |
|
we slalomed through |
|
and i realized that night that the hall light |
|
which seemed so bright when you turned it on is nothing |
|
compared to the dawn |
|
which is nothing, compared to the light |
|
which seeps from me while you're sleeping beautiful |
|
and grotesque resting cocooned in my room |
|
that night we got kicked out of two bars |
|
and laughed our way home |
|
and i held you there thinking |
|
i would offer you my pulse |
|
i would give you my breath |
|
i would offer you my pulse |
