He said to make sure it spilled out of you,
he said to not show it to lovers or mothers.
Well I showed it to both and called it intimacy
scrapping the tops of buildings like we did
trying to pick up extra change for the hobos you
wanted to be.
Now I look at you,
trying to spill out clumps of
your hair
pulling from the drain,
our flight fell.
Crevass of echos deep in their chaos, it melds into
the swirl of who you were to me,
sitting up late,
wanting grasses greener than
the dollar i spent
not sleeping in bed with you again.