We have this thing, him and I, and it's only in wee mornings crack of dawn or just after midnight, some message on a cell phone or just the voice and a note saying there's something close we know.
Blew twelve and kissed the thirteenth finger.
"Rabbit, rabbit," on the first.
I hold my breath.
Did tricks I hoped you wouldn't notice.
A superstitious hyperrealist.
I'll make you mine.
And it happens only in important months, on the first of December where our birthdays are, and then in little minutes of January when we know there's some great and terrible year stepping big black boots our way, and what's it gonna be? But at least we have our shared nostalgia, lettered in mix tapes and extravagance , me in a parking lot with rain all around and the static in the tape, listening to Jawbreaker for the first time in a car now sure dead and gone.
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1 comment:
i know what you mean
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