I
I wait for Time to walk away. I conjure a gun and rest my fingers upon it. This is how I sleep. This is how I sleep.
II
Rub, rub on my chest the truth that I needed from you. Tonight, any ointment is hope.
III
There's a ceiling fan I've jumped into - a rain of soundlessness. Life, not suicide.
IV
I dream of burnt poems and of running through the thick, black forest of Night.
Will you hold my hand, sweetheart? Will you touch a burning poem?
I wait for Time to walk away. I conjure a gun and rest my fingers upon it. This is how I sleep. This is how I sleep.
II
Rub, rub on my chest the truth that I needed from you. Tonight, any ointment is hope.
III
There's a ceiling fan I've jumped into - a rain of soundlessness. Life, not suicide.
IV
I dream of burnt poems and of running through the thick, black forest of Night.
Will you hold my hand, sweetheart? Will you touch a burning poem?
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