There is a boy calling from outside my bedroom window.
But, I don't hear him.
I can't.
Because the song that tripped me, is blasting lies into my skull.
I want. you.
I want. you.
I Want. You.
Why'd you play it?
Better yet, why did I feel inclined to listen.
Enlighten me, please.
What was is about my bruised heart that made you think it was okay to drop kick it to the moon?
Well.
It wasn't "okay".
But I'm there now.
On the moon.
"Love," you said, "I believe it's real". and I almost believed you.
I am deaf due to the fact that I listened to the roar of lies you sang for me.
I can see my CD of French music from up here.
It's being crushed in your muddy palms,
that were my security only weeks before. . .
Deny the metallic pieces of my CD the resting place of a trash can.
Throw them up here.
But aim at Mars on purpose.
(I'm on the moon remember.)
 |
| (your view) |
 |
| (my view) |
Let them fly like shooting stars.
Too dull for the eyes of earth.
I am not there.
(Like you are. you are there)
I see my shards of mute music amongst the stars,
and I know.
they were just terribly misplaced.
All of "us" is gone.
but the after taste of you remains a resident in my mouth.
(Even though we never kissed, there is an after taste.)
(Even though we never kissed, there is an after taste.)
An after taste of two elementary words.
P.S.
You spelled my name wrong.
