In the phone booth again,
as it fogs
and my rain-slicked hand reaches
for the balls it takes to call you.
It rings.
(Where are you?)
Again.
(Come on.)
Again.
(Please)
Again.
Then nothing.
They say real love goes on forever
but I just don't have it in me anymore.
Now, I wish on anything I can.
I ask to be shot.
I ask for the correct amount of powder.
I ask for a car crash.
Fuck, yes,
even a car crash would be more bearable.
Staring straight down, I open the doors,
cross the street, and let it start again.
If you cried reading this,
I cried louder writing it.
On nights like these,
I'm afraid I'm gonna be alive
a lot longer than I'm dead.
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2 comments:
I adore this and have memorized the feeling. Let's make a zine or something rad, Jamie Long.
I'm glad you commented me, i'm mostly stagnant on LJ these days, haha.
Dude-man-Jim-brahhh,
I would definitely make a zine, or just move to Canada with you and create art.
Yeah I quit the LJ scene, I'm just using this for poems from now on.
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