Headlights race towards the corner of the dining room. Half
illuminate a face before they disappear. You breathe in forty
years of failing to describe a feeling. I breathe out smoke
against the window, trace the letters in your name. Our
letters sound the same; full of all our changing that isn`t
change at all. All straight lines circle sometime. You
said `Somewhere there`s a box full of replacement parts to all
the tenderness we`ve broken or let rust away. Somewhere
sympathy is more than just a way of leaving. Somewhere
someone says `I`m sorry.` Someone`s making plans to stay.`
So tell me it`s okay. Tell me anything, or show me there`s a
pull, unassailable, that will lead you there, from the dark,
alone, benevolence that you`ve never known, or you knew
when you were four and can`t remember. Where a small knife
tears out those sloppy seams, and the silence knows what
you silence means, and your metaphors (as mixed as you
can make them) are linked, like days, together. I still hear
trains at night, when the wind is right. I remember
everything, lick and thread this string that will never mend
you or tailor more than a memory of a kitchen floor, or the
fire-door that we kept propping open. And I love this place;
the enormous sky, and the faces, hands that I`m haunted by,
so why can`t I forgive these buildings, these frameworks
labeled `Home`? Send " This Is A Fire Door Never Leave Open" Ringtone to your Cell