you've got the whole world in your hands
but you don't know what to do with the damn thing,
you don't know how to hold it or stroke it or keep it from slip-sliding right off your palm,
right off the edge of the universe.
god, you're such a shit disturber,
an 8.3 earthquake and can you please tell me why our plates keep colliding
and why you won't leave me be?
you won't leave me, you notoriously fickle lover -
of company and my soul.
what a trip! baby, you're a trip trap.
and it's like,
you're the sightless one at the end of this sad hallway,
vexing and testing and lookin' around my town.
sure, you don't know much but you gotta do what you don't gotta do
and suit up, man. take it, man. be it, man.
let's be real. where are you to me?
in a closet, in my bed.
at the 24hour coffee shop.
I like the cigarette in your hand and your eye behind the lens
because I'm a minimalist and you're my drama-rama-lama-ding-dong queen.
the gods have always been free of sorrow but we're dripping heaves of paint, okay?
we're only tumblerumble stones, okay?
A/N: Call me Lucy, Fer.