Chernobyl eyes, green flashes of mutual destruction.
I hated that word until the day I broke it down.
And so I want to thank the architect who built her up,
Who tricked me with her maze heart
And made me think that what goes up must come down.
Because I’ve been to every floor and they all look like heaven.
I used to think that heaven was something they devised to make me like boys,
But no boy has ever made me believe in god the way her sad eyes do.
-I’ll white-wash my pallet to remember the taste of you.-
And I’m still waiting for her to say “I see what’s going on here.”
But it’s always me doing the looking. I look at her like she’s the the reclining ocean just before the tsunami.
I have no idea of what’s coming but I want to follow her into the corner, stepping on all the jelly fish kisses she leaves behind. “Kiss me here and here and here,” I’d say.
I imagine what her tides feel like.
Man, I’d let her burn smileys into the back of my hands and watch as each one bubbled like the way she said my name.
Put the lid back on, we’re not done yet. I want to stick to her like spaghetti to the roof. Yeah, they’ll have to scrape me out from beneath her nails.
I know what they meant, those Cold War Kids,
Singing about something I’ll never get to feel.
If she wasn’t real, I swear I’d still make her up. She’d be my Princess Bubblegum, a ticket to the land of Ooh.
But tell me, how do I still breathe so easy in your post-apocalyptic wasteland?
I laid this suitcase on my chest
So I could feel somebody’s weight.
—Brandi Carlile (via andrewgibby)