dream deep

I’d say something short and sweet, only I don’t remember how. All I do remember these days when I remember to remember are the tracks we made on the asphalt driving round and round simply because we could. We were artists of the highest degree and the parking lots were our canvases, and we made Pollock look like a fool. We lived in a little box and we’d stay out nights and stay in afternoons, all those afternoons it rained and rained and rained. These pictures I put on paper, they’re never what I want, and these days I never care, I wish I cared. One day soon it’ll catch up to me and sneer and laugh and then I’ll regret all this, I think I will. And our box, I think it was wood, the sort that smells like applesauce and cider and straight alcohol,  although I never found out why. We’d spend days and nights just touching the dark grain and getting cuts on our fingers that took days to heal, it was that good. 
I won't always love these selfish things. You were good reason to make me see that. 


Do you think we dreamt it all, do you think we made it up inside our heads? It felt real enough, I'll give us that much. The blood made it real. But now, after everything, I'm doubting the fact that anything ever happened despite the scars on my arms and the discs you made for me, song after song after song. Next December you’ll leave and that will have been that, and I’ll stay here wishing I knew how not to regret this. Or maybe not, maybe I’ll leave and the wood will be all that’s left behind. This is unreal, this needs to stop right now. I’m never going to ask you for things you can't give me but perhaps tonight, you could pretend? Someone slap me. There is a dead bird on the floor, I think it used to be ours once upon a time when everything mattered more.