|
The mirrors and the unacknowledged nods |
|
Dial tones and license plates |
|
The words you didn't choose |
|
Everything the day's too small to hold |
|
Spills on to the dusk |
|
And shorts the evening's fuse |
|
So you fumble for a voice |
|
And sing happy birthday |
|
Read it to yourself again |
|
The stories always end the same |
|
He can't stay and she won't run |
|
And fear is where they're calling from |
|
Staunch the blood from countless tiny cuts |
|
We're all out of bandages |
|
The heaters' rattle, taunt |
|
Sifting through translucent shards of glass |
|
Looking for a filament |
|
That lit the life you want |
|
So you stumble for the phone |
|
Grasp the cord and pull |
|
Will your readership complain the stories always end the same? |
|
She can't stay and he won't run, and fear is where they're calling from |
|
Afraid is where you're calling from |
