I will never speak to you again. I will never speak to you again. I will never speak.
Put your arms around me and touch me with your compulsive fingertips and wake me, but this time on the steps of your mind or the mournful solitude of your heart or that green grass of a bottomless ditch. You know, the one where I found you rolling in as I meddled on your drunkenness. And this time ask me, ask the wind, ask the parliament of owls, ask the broken clock, ask everything that is flying, everything that is moaning, everything that isn't moving. Ask them who you are as I sip on this drink made of butterfly wings and electric wire. Ask them who you are as I dance dance dance in this naked room filled with misfits and broken survivors and quarterless jukeboxes.
Put your arms around me and tell me, long-legged martini man. Tell me rowdily as you thrust your olive in my mouth. Tell me that time you were born late and pulled over blind-folded with an apple-cinnamon scented candle still lit in your mouth. Tell me you were sorry and your jeans were too tight and you witnessed that tree fall down in the forest of my life. You know, the one we used to sit under in summertime. The one we used to sit.
Put your arms around me and sing me your drinking song. Sing me your scrambled eggs and whiskey as I kneel low in your vocabulary in this lamplit kitchen of mine. Spread that balm on your chaotic lips and touch me one last time with that unused kiss.
Put your arms around me and do not write, for that drink we had was cordial and that touch we touched was sober. Put your arms around me and do not write, for I taste of liquor never brewed and of stained red dresses. Put your arms around me and do not write to me, I will never speak to you again.
