Two thousand, eight hundred
You wake up with your pockets full of dirt,
smelling like oil and without your keys.
You have hands that shake and knuckles that scab,
four dead languages under your tongue,
a broken bottle in your flower bed.
We pace the streets for the thing you lost,
our backs stiff from the yellow floor.
My bottom lip is fat and my voice is all yours,
six strands of hair caught on your neck.
Can you keep a secret?
So can I.
Come back before this winter ends
and tie me to this bed.
This city isn’t mine but its skyline feels like home
and the little girl at the water fountain
seems somehow like a sign.
I’m still keeping buttons for bass notes
and selling everything I own.
Tie a ribbon round your finger, baby,
it’ll be a long day yet.