weird little birthday girl

The song is nine minutes long. Whatever comes out now will be what rocks. 

Tweedle dee dum dum, humming to the tune of my own song, song sung, hips shaken and stirred against the subtle humdum bass drum groove of your soul, against the side, scratching and murmuring in kind, like nothing else except the face of the one you love, the testing and the taking of another step, another chance to make things right, to get the first touch taken and then last breath inhaled, smelling of dew and of lavender, of cauliflower and clouds, of soggy mornings and stale evenings, past the bedtime but before the dawn.

here we go again, breathing, taking whatever can be took, in and down from the tops of the trees and the sidewinding streets of the mountain behind your house, in and inside the mouth of tree tongued chameleons, of a desperate attempt to keep things tied up and swallowed, to keep the night away from the good light, the light that takes you in and turns you around, spins you until you feel like getting rid of everything we ever built together, all the wood beams and dust mites, all the vacuum jobs in spite and in hope that the feeling, the tawny ache, wouldn’t seep back in.

It’s so easy to replace it. It’s so easy to take things slowly when the world feels locked, when time stood still because she had to, because whether the light was red or the line was flat, it's up to you. It’s hard enough to feel dead in the mornings. Try feeling alive. Christ, do we ever give ourselves enough credit? Can we take in anything? There might be something on the edge of okay, always around the corner and inside the bud that never really blooms. How many corners will we turn before the chase becomes a case, before the edge of things catches up to us, and the lights turn out?

We don’t really get along, me and her, but we try, and what does that mean anyways? Why should we try to get along when our breaths do enough for the both of us, intermingling intertwined and in love. Does this make sense? I can’t hear you. No, no, no. I guess things don’t need to be anything other than they are, that this thing in my hands and my mouth, behind my eyes and my sighs, my hear and my stove, this thing i have is.