A phone is about to ring inside
I rush home and the door is you coughing up my new blood like a cluttered dimension, I shrug, unacceptable
big hug, long hug, hallmark cards in the rubble of us
not quite remote enough to be bohemia but we go far and it seems so long
There are still VCRs where we are, nestled inside-out the treason of a conk and curl, coughing us up as stuttering magnets
I don't want much stuff but I want everything
to come down and kiss me on the palm so tenderly it's almost violent
and unrelenting
we're both too shy to step outside this feeling, feeling this happy in the open makes us both feel dumb
and suspicious like that one spread umbrella on the street and the friendly ghost beneath it, afraid something good might happen
