suck on this
Saxophones are amber glazed city lights finally giving into the first muffled sob,
sheets crammed in fist crammed in pink wet mouth,
about some sick boy who smells of cigarettes
the swallow tattoo tastes of salt and brine,
Shoulder blade/teeth/sharp/minor/key change
This is the proof we needed to know that the woman who loves too hard
[The single task of waiting has now become an act of violent disrespect towards oneself.]
She is not a little girl who was simply unwrapped into grown up clothes.
She is brass and fingerprints and all things haunting
and I am her -- the wailing alto,
asking the streets if they have your forwarding address.
This song was intended for you,
In case you didn’t know.
& even the damp reed can splinter.