Sometimes nostalgia waltzes in aggressive meters up against my spine,
In the dead of day, in the gray chill of an afternoon,
Like a Spartan soldier, like a raven
Perched upon my chest.
The shards of my sanity scattered throughout my sleep,
In the blood and chills throughout my day, you flicker in and out
My eyelids and in the form of bad prose structured
In terrible sentences that my ego calls, Poetry.
I guess I loved you because I never loved anyone before or after
In the struggle of retrospect, I cannot say
Yes, yes I always did
No, no I never did.
But if I loved you, I loved you like a still life painting
In silence and boredom, your face on a ten foot frame
Hung on the Louvre, I stood in front of you
Pretending to understand everything that made you, You.
It’s unfortunate what a piano, some violins
A British voice suffocated in blue
And a repeat button can do to me
When my ovaries start to run down my thighs.