Tell Me A Story

From a street nearby, I wrote you letters. For months they were kept in a box near the door, stacked up and waiting. I wish I knew where you were so I could tell you things. We wound up in the underground. I found us huddled near a vending machine, drinking from the same cup of coffee, laughing at a photograph of a fat man wearing a tu-tu on the wall, advertising cellphones. The train approached, shrieking into the hour, wind rushing. In the middle of Pigalle I sat down and c

A bird doesn't say you know that and I never told you. You must know by now. I have tried quiet smiles. I wish I told you but. You know what happens when it happens. It happens like this. It is almost that. It is real when you wear denim. I am sitting with words, screaming truths behind red lips. I am in a chair. I am telling you answers, just not in the way you want them. You are overthinking it. You are good at that and I like it and dislike it. Those thoughts are what I'm