Death Cell Blues

…got… the death cell blues…

what do I do… what do I do…

waiting… wondering…

 

… I the smashed clock…

its dial I dare not watch…

 waiting… listening…

 

each tiny sound… every footstep…

waiting… wondering…

how long now?

 

… waiting for the darkness

for my shortest day…

…my racing mind

 

… heightened imagination

waiting… wondering…

how long now?

 

any sudden trip…

but in that brief moment…

 imagining that drop to obscurity

 

i want you
with all the cracks
and the stories
you’ve collected
and i want to
hear them all
and kiss you
just as i did
before i heard
them when you
were pure in
my eyes
but what is purity anyways?
some bullshit concept
made up to keep the guilt alive
you are not your past
you are the woman
who climbed those walls
and jumped over them
to where we met
we met at the other side

Writers think about
the day
they won’t be able to write
like others think
about they day they’ll die.
Will it happen
when you see
a bickering couple
still hold hands,
or cherry blossom petals
sweep the city
like snowflakes,
or find old love letters
and realize
that it wasn’t him,
it was you
all along,
or see someone
exceptionally handsome
in a coffee shop
or a hummingbird
perched on your
windowsill
and when you reach
for your pen,
you’ll leave your paper
blank?