i was laying on a rock near a polluted river last summer,
the sun beat down on my body, and your eyes were somewhere
between my forehead and hip bones.
this hurt confusion and loss of innocence has pushed
me into a discomfort, a wanting and longing for a
sweet reunion that may never come.
when i give up, will you be there, walking on a pair
of stilts, accustomed to traveling, one year older
and wiser and further away from me.
i just want to go back over that bridge, naked
singing, running from 9 to 5, and finding your
hands resting somewhere between my forehead
and hip bones.
i think you might be gay, i think you might be afraid,
i think you might be the only answer to my sick
and lonely dreams.
idealistic romance leaves me wholesomely
hanging on to nothing at all but a memory
in a black box that read "ARTISTS" torn
on my Chicago windowsill.
Someone may discover my talent, someone
may give me a job speaking, starting the revolution,
but I don't want to start it without you....
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