The Turning Leaf (Soul Suicide Baby)

In a crush.
You cute lovers.
You magnetic two.
And the earth revolves around your moon.
Around the crescent shaped form,
of the two of you,
leaning into one another.
That gentle curve.

You kissing beneath the Douglas-fir.

If your feet were closer.
You'd look like a heart.
Like love.

But your not.

"You want it, you need it, the words slip away
Your crying your eyes out, your mind wants to break
Your heart is your weakness, your song plays endlessly
Wonder how you sleep, it’s a wonder to me

So how’s it going to feel
When you don’t know what’s real
You tell yourself it’s love, then tear your insides up
So how’s it going to feel
When you don’t know what’s real
You tell yourself it’s love,
then tear yourself apart."

And the song plays on in your head. You know he's played it before. Played on some old jukebox at the back of another pub. Same story, night after night. You've sang this song before, in your dreams. In your heart, it feels like lightning strikes, with no thunder. And the tears stain your face again.

You've played this game too many times. Seen the nicks in the quarter, filled with grime, before you dropped it into the slot. You thought, what song should I play next. Just to try to erase the last. Still ringing in your ears. Still pulling on your tears.

And the words becomes a hum. Becomes the noise in the still night. When you wake in wet shivers. Your pink tanktop clinging to your breasts. You pull on it. It slaps back against you. Sopping.

You've shared this dream with other nights. With other dead spaces of time. When the world seems asleep around you. When you feel like the only soul awake on the block. In the neighborhood. In the world. You rattle your senses. Grab the bottle of water, swig a gulp. Release a long gasp of breath, and text him again. It's 3AM and you're a zombie.

There's something about the strumming of a good guitarist. Something about the coordination that you haven't figured out yet. You can't get your eyes off his hands. Watching the wrist move like that. How those sounds fill the room.

How the Earth does not circle the moon.

With another inhalation.
And the gasp. The choke.
You cough out all the bad smoke.
Spit out the black phelgm,
until you see pink again.

If you move in circles,
fast enough,
and you let the world spin,
you'll get dizzy,
fall,
and see,
the world ain't so tough.

You'll stand again.