so i had this idea that this is all before we wake up our little hearts at peace and our little pills still in their cup one night i had this dream that i could not wake from at all then i fell through my bed but you were there to break my fall then you put me down and you were gone and i'm wondering what the hell i did wrong i'm starting to think that it wasn't true i'm trying so hard to remember you so i had this idea that i cannot quite recall and memory might serve if i could just bend down and crawl but i'm pulled up tall and i feel dumb when everyone laughs at what i've become i'm starting to learn that this isn't true i'm starting to remember things about you yesterday i would have known to put one foot before the other and one thing inside another to hide it away but yesterday i also would have clothed the naked truth and over serendipity i would have favored proof see, even now it's hard to close my eyes and know that you're still there and know that my control is slipping swiftly away and even now it's hard to know that science is just proof and serendipity is just another flavor of the truth

here's what i would say to you if you and i were lovers even if we wanted to we couldn't clean these covers cause you mean nothing to me cause i mean nothing to you cause you mean nothing to me cause i mean nothing to you stains so set we could have traced their borders with our eyes closed with fingertips protected by the prophylactic of our choice that you mean nothing to me and i mean nothing to you cause you mean nothing to me cause i mean nothing to you even though you shouldered me that time when i was down this dance we do is a ritual prescribed to provide comfort and convenience to the weak knees of the dancer this dance we do conforms to all the rules and regulations put forth by the bodies keeping seats warm for THE MAN, SIR and I would dance with you but you can't dance and otherwise pretending only gives us both a fucking cancer in the head do you ever see in the faces of your friends the skull bones underneath and how everyone pretends? do you ever picture the hard hospital bed where one day you'll be clear on who you should have been instead? may i have this dance, you'll say and i could play that part but i mean nothing to you and you mean nothing to me and so this mattress might see a rhythm but never a heart

this is the voice of a ghost this is the permanent footprint of the dead inside almost

she died on her birthday years ago she lived on her deathbed but she didn't know the way he looked at her was a sin and he didn't know she never felt the wind on her skin he climbed her a mountain he built her a home in his heart, a prison and waited for her to come and save him from castration but he didn't have the balls to send the invitation and there but for the grace of god go you and i you and i have breathed enough of this air to be sleepy to all the things we used to only dream would be but we are propped up on one elbow each and staring and i belong to you and you belong to me and we're awake and we can see and we have seen enough of this light to be blinded to all the stuff we used to have to squint to see but you're already on my retina forever and it won't be long for you and neither will it be long for me so listen to me when i say there is no time we only get a moment and the words have to rhyme, given the modern format of song a verse and a chorus to persuade you with their love song she died on her birthday all alone in her head, a prison where she waited with her telephone but all its bells were silent as he stared at her number and her photo on his island and there but for the grace of god go you and i

This is the voice of a ghost. This is the permanent echo of words from a mouth sewn closed. This is the voice of a ghost. This is the bifurcated pulse of a broken heart without a host. This is a note from a song that doesn't care. It's decomposed. Blowing out the candles again, and I am spitting in the wind. Clawing at the curtains of relevance, and trying to pretend with my best laid pretense that this is not the end. I tried to call myself up on the telephone. I tried to knock on the door at my old home. I used my old phone number and everything, but the old me just wasn't answering. This is the voice of a ghost. This is the cheshire smile of the kid who played guitar, and the wash of a fading reverb scar. The disembodied voice of a ghost drank a little red wine, and dreamed that he was a portmanteau, haunted in the ear by some beautiful dissonance that drowned everything but the descant of his beloved family. Well, quid pro quo, baby. They see the confident walk of a man who fits well in his clothes. But in the shrug of his shoulders is a darkness that nobody knows. This is the voice of a ghost. This is the canned refrain of a spirit now passed on. He used to walk there next to you, but now he's gone. He told me the only thing we have to do is fall, and that our echoes are not permanent at all. Wake, my boy. Come out and feel the sun, and tend the garden of all that you have been. Wake, my son. Come out and smell the rain, and tell me the story of who you are again.