poem for time-travelers, for moments lost

 

and we get to the point where

you tell me you love me,

but how?

 

i know who i am

 

i believe in fear,

and in self-doubt

 

in de chirico’s shadows,

because what we say is never as

important as what we really mean

 

what we can name has no

bearing on what we can own

 

fuck it

 

we can’t all be cobain,

right?

 

someone needs to stick around

to clean up the mess

 

someone needs to pay for the smack

 

it’s the simple economics of

staring into the sun

 

the kid in the back seat

with a hole in his heart

 

tell him you love him,

but he isn’t listening

 

explain how the story will end,

but he doesn’t care

 

just wants a little room

to bleed