L
Glottorhea, basically.Monday, August 02, 2010
Why won't Thursday come?
I want it to be night.
I want to be done.
I need to a chance to sleep
and to breathe
before I start the whole thing over.
I saw a movie in the theater
with my little group of friends,
you among them.
I started thinking that I made this world.
I made it out of the California weather.
I made it out of the northern culture I once missed so much.
I made it out of books and music
and a dream of wholeness
and a memory of Dylan next to me
holding my hand in the dark.
How do I tell you that you're not him?
Is it so silly to think
that I made
you to save a fading memory?
Let go of my hand. Get up.
come on Thursday.
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