TheCourtRose

His skin is cold on this cold winter night The longest night is too long Blue and bloodless You hold vigil a thousand miles away for the man who once held you high It could've been you instead in his frost covered grave The tracks of a thousand regrets line his lifeless limbs One path too many I am here, wishing I was there Not for him, but for you because it could've been you It may have been you It could still be you Tears are ice down my cheeks I am helpless tonight to help you and I hate every moment of this longest night Winter ground and fallowed fields, frozen lakes and forded rivers stand between us Never has there been so much distance before Yet I can feel you weeping and tearing in my chest The cold catches clouds from your mouth and puffs of air blow through me You are in me You have always been in me If you follow him to the grave I will not be far behind For the sake of us both, please live Forge a different path and lay different ...

Wicked, tripping, useless words I cannot abide them today So when you slip inside me No please, no thank you No here, no, no there Only want and need When my spine arches, you'll know I want you When my toes curl, you'll know I need you When I come hard, clenching and surrounding you I'll kiss away the words tumbling on repeat from your lips Wiping them against the paleness of my belly There they will stay and dry, for a later day When I actually care to see them

How did your voice already become soundtrack? All at once this song rumbles and humbles me A floating, free-falling baritone thrumming in the background So quickly, this music begins I cannot let you be the melody but neither are you simply a rhythm for me to dance upon You can be my harmony, though and between the two of us we can cover all of sound together

Her half smile looks on and no one meets her gaze Trapped in feaux '60s Paris We all know acrylic and canvas cannot hold her for long A virgin and a candle would set her free One we have, the other I haven't seen in years

Down a highway with 8 full wheels Leona's, it says and the average Joe rightly believes it filled with food But on the inside there's a life There's the patch of quilt his friend from Nicaragua says looks like the River of Blood A collage I made him for his 30th birthday There's a papsan chair that has followed him everywhere and will come home again As he does, every time In a borrowed truck now, maybe a duct-tape car next Makes you wonder what else those trucks are carrying down the road It's been so easy to assume until now Leona's was carrying his life and because I love him it was carrying my life, too