i look at two photographs of memories i feel like i've seen before. like i've made some sort of deal with some kind of higher power above the things i've seen...so, why is my breath short, and what does it all mean? to see these two photographs and feel like i'm there, though they're not of me or anyone who cares.
i wanna age thirty years older, disappear into this photograph. ask you to take a chance--so, dear, shall we dance?
you can take my head, but please give me some sort of theme to put on my stone when i am dead...or so it really seems that idealized versions of the future that don't involve the middle part of life i'm only living when i'd prefer to learn at least a little about the poor conversation i so blatantly confuse with secure indiscretion i don't know how to use.
you can take my head and roll it down the stream. i'll stop dreaming when i'm dead or so it really seems.