Crush

Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending
that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands,
these shins, these soapy flanks.

Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.

History repeats itself. Somebody says this.

History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,

over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.

History is a little man in a brown suit

trying to define a room he is outside of.

I know history. There are many names in history

but none of them are ours.

We're shooting the scene where I swallow your heart and you make me

spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls

I'm sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious.

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

I’m pulling you out of the burning buildings

and you say I’ll give you anything but you never come through

I stare at you like I'm looking through a window,

counting birds.

History is a little man in a brown suit

trying to define a room he is outside of.

I know history. There are many names in history

but none of them are ours.

An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn.

The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night

is thinking. It's thinking of love.

It's thinking of stabbing us to death

and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.

That's a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey kisses for everyone.