i think that if you knocked on my door i might just
d i s a p p e a r- like your fleeting
not much makes sense anymore as you search for
questions by the waterside. you never knew I had
all the answers tucked away in my pocket just so I could
watch you move (your breath, even, is an
art form) but maybe it's not the answers you're
looking for. i need you like i need the
rain, the inspiration for backward notes and disharmony,
(augmented melodies had always been music to my
ears. why, you ask? because they resolve.) the
reeds you pushed through by the waterside amount to
everything but the one that vibrates under my
p a r t e d lips.
(none can compare—your name is music to my audience,
dischord to my