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negative image i've been here too short a time to feel this old. my yellow coat is rarely hung up and it wasn't that long ago we talked about being bandits on the run. i stop to check my answering machine and the red light stops blinking and it is you telling me the world has ended, even though i know it's not the case because people are still eating rye bread and washing it down with coca-cola and the news. i should be reading about Marx or Rwanda or even just writing myself a letter for once, but the truth is, you make my toes tingle like Buenos Aires at night and i know loving me wasn't easy but i don't want to go through one or thirty thunderstorms without you. let's watch the sun melt backwards, feel it rain margaritas, and run away with a caravan of gypsies. my moments lie. i have conveniently trusted parentheses failures and there's distrust in the five o'clock half light, and there are not enough mangoes in mason jars strangling Ordinary Time or doing the polka off to war. i believe my eyes over my words. |
