trust me | there is no answer that could
the feeling | in words. perhaps when we are old
[if we are old together] i | will explain everything.
in this moment, all i can say | is that your eyes drive me
things to remember:
flying black russians
quiet stovetop conversation
the dirty three
2-for-1 caramel macchiatos
alliances, and throwing a martini in my eye.
green houses on triangle corners
peppermint stick ice cream + amaretto coffee
the banquet was in shambles, the velveteen curtains in flames.
twelve young men in suit coats walked in to the middle of the ballroom and starting throwing porcelain. at first, no one knew whether or not to blink, as if perhaps this sort of thing happens all the time beneath actual crystal chandeliers.
[they were wrong. this sort of thing never happens.]
one by one, we joined in. there was stomping. our feet pounded the floor til
rings of sound echoed through the walls, shattering the stems of every wine glass held high. the chaos was thick like smoke, as the chef was crying in the kitchen, clutching the remains of her piano keys. we stayed up all night watching the explosion. you could see it from miles.
don't feed me violence | just run with me | through rows of speeding cars
[i always thought the words were "don't feed me violins." somehow, i think either way it's sung is so terribly, tragically beautiful.]