Hearing With My Heart

Johnny Cash is all over her iPod.
Something feels different when he plays.
He blows my mind every single time,
I think that I can't change.
This theater's walls are pulsing.
We're trapped at the bottom of his thumb.
When he plays at us, he refers to us
all as if we're one.
She just can't help but take out her zippo,
and wave it around by his head.
Like she's worshipping him, acting as if
everyone else is dead.
The ceiling itself is starting to sweat.
We're trapped inside of his pulsing neck.
It's warm enough, when out cheeks touch,
our lips stayed put, we didn't have the sense.

Now he has two drinks in each hand,
as he tells us the good news.
He says, "thank you," to be, but what
do I care?
I have nothing to look foward to.
Now she's guilty all over her eyes.
No, I do not want this feeling to die.
He takes his contacts out, I sleep in my clothes.
I've told this story far too many times.