which compels us
to keep explaining it
even as it makes liars out of us
every time we try,
is a graveyard
that knows
I am still alive.
but I am clocks.
I am fountains in the middle of malls.
I line up music with time.
wish for more wishes
in the middle of a playlist,
right when the fifth song kicks in,
and your heart beats
like a timebomb.
there was a kid
that always looked
like he came from a riot;
his name was Ryan.
sail on tricks of devastation,
detonated by the same bomb
in your heart, the one
from the stanza before last
and recognize the past is an asshole.
the best kiss
to build a dream on,
wrapped up in books,
pictures of muses,
is not as good
as a whisper
from a passerby
that is unintelligible,
so we can make up
whatever we want it
to be said.