I could just let these tunes, melodies, empty my brain, but there's no getting around it...
You ask me to come here, tell you a story, write you some poetry, sing you a song, but I can't...
I know you're not listening. Who listens these days, anyway?
It's already tomorrow. I forgot to mail that love letter yesterday. And the milk's old, about two days ago.
I expect your call soon. I think it could bode well--there could be some kind of reconciliation, some kind of good news. But who knows--it might take some time to tell.
I don't know. I learned to read at an early age, but I'm stuck here, still trying to decipher your language...a mouthful of rage...
Aren't you tired of "but"s, because I am. "Pero no." Pero si.
I'm a frantic flier. Fly-by-er. I stretch my skin as far as it will go. And still, it ain't tight enough.
My heart beats "churn," like the butter under a rotor, goes 'round 'round, and thickens, like skin beaten beneath a wide frown and a bleeding heart worn on a sleeve.
Ah, do you even remember me? My scent? You carrying my keys?
There's no raspberry or cherry or secret slippin' from these lips. You might want to catch up, give me a kiss.
We all die sooner rather than later. I hate to be the bearer of such bad news.
What happens then? When worse comes to worst, what happens when?!
I smile at you because we both know that everything ends up alright. All the meaninglessness in the world can't break a striving fool's fight for time.
Can't you hear it?
It's that dream you had but tried to deny. It's that small hope that your love will bury you alive. It's that bigger-than-life symphony of singing seeds. The rapture.
It's you and me.
Don't be a pussy. I got your number.
You can see me inside, I suppose.
Come outside, already.
Your good Lord knows.
I hold so little against you. And the things I carry are light.
You're lucky I'm easy. I won't put up much of a fight...