The gray’s almost perfect; the clouds are still thin. There’s a plan on my nightstand it’s time to begin. You are hopping the freeways, chasing green signs and red tails. We might be playing the same song, each biting the same nail. And it’s cold so I zipper, unhooded and shivering. You point out the small dipper, and say the big one’s wintering somewhere south where it’s warmer, over foreign fast food lanes. The gray’s nearly perfect enough to explain I’m not here when you aren’t I no longer exist until you pull up in my driveway and clasp hands while we kiss.

Back at home, it gets darker with D.C. long miles lost. When we are separate it feels like we both got double-crossed by the strange breaking pattern that’s out of my hands. You light me like a candle. You have to understand.

~ by perfectionatrix on January 29, 2010.

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