Sunday, February 22, 2009

It is a night,
A night where he takes the long way to the mailbox
Even though he knows it's empty,
No one sends letters.

You are as honest
As a broken watch
And I don't mind when you lie with me
Just as long as you keep the sheets
Around the both of us.

But he can't go far,
Not with so much concrete and gravel and right angles
Because for once he'd like to take the wrong angles,
For one brief moment,
To find himself
Somewhere he hasn't been before.

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