a push - and it's over.










Someone choose who's left and who's leaving.
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:
a blanket, some matches, this pain in my chest,
the best parts of Lonely, duct-tape and soldered wires,
new words for old desires,

and every birthday card I threw away.

I wait in 4/4 time,
Count yellow highway lines that you're relying on to lead you home.