December: a whisper, the kind that I slip in your ear.

you & me, baby, we're like a skipping cassette tape(with an echo, accidentally, of course)

again. again. again

my melancholy shake down, it's midnight; I'm wide awake

and dreaming.

third time does the trick, right?

But how to bind the lines together like

the rhythm of a song? (elliott smith . between the bars. The empty spaces

in children's faces. they don't make records anymore.) an angry swell

and a pell-mell dash & a riot without a cause

that's setting me off like a rocket launch into moonless black fabric.

he told me, he told me, he told me, he didn't think that th(i)s was real.

"neither do i. neither do i." I intoned, in shades of breaking treble and

aching alto.

white lily hands, brave, brave little girl pocketbook

soul: I wear it on my slightly hippie-trippy corduroy purse now.

this is the quick sliding back to

- bloody feet on the hardwood floor,

weeping ballerina by the ceiling length mirror-

-the vacant, vapid stare of an empty locket (it was plastic, anyway)- and

-my stomach twisting loops and Christmas present bows at your words,

but mostly tying tangled knots-

we tried too hard, tried too long, tried too much.

and this

is the end,

the end,

the end.