who ever would have thought this elderly town could provide something other than hellish regrets?
caffeine addicts and broken glasses:
you wrote like an outcast from the beat generation and my, how i enjoyed you, honey.
every vulgar quotation muttered as you sipped and gulped your orange crush.
it was more than a crush, wasn't it babe, but not quite the monotonous idea of love.
those musty alleyways crammed us together and i remember suffocating on bluebirds and
window curtains.
the town was decaying, i was a white flood, and you were the revolution.
the traffic sign stalking our door said "stop", but we never obeyed.
"what can you expect from two bad seeds looking for soil?"
i was light and cascaded with the changing winds, but you were rooted
and your literature was too heavy for wings. it wasn't love; i was alive with glory.
the neon sign proclaimed "we closed" and the greyhound door was open...
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