Obvious Vagabonds

Some Sunday when I'm young again. I'll write you to find out how you have been. Frenzied lips and dutiful skin change the choices. Not the decision. If only I had that choice.

Fresh boogie men try on their tuxedos. As I listen to the music dim. They'll be no dance. Just Cinderella's wet with pumpkin. And the trail the carriage forgets. Crippled time machines trying too hard. To convince the math.

Maybe we grow together. Maybe we just grow old. Pleated skirts on dead pussies. Tease the volcano. But it never erupts. The ladder tries to hard. And she falls from it. Closer to heaven. Further from the top. It doesn't make sense. There's nowhere to go. But a million places I should've been.

The alarm on then wake me up. But I stay in bed. I gather my journal. The artifacts that make it obvious. How lost we've become.

We broke the window together. But the blame was not split. We talked about heaven, but planned on something less. Time dug its claws deeper into the opening. the blood paused for a moment. To relieve the bandage. But they were all used up.

Some Sunday. When we're young again. I'll kiss your cheek and say that we learned something.