"I am so sorry" He looked like Pinocchio, And his expression was plastic and fake while you, Were invincibly intricate and challenging like chess, Looking at me, myself and I and the size of this mess, so I suppose upon a rose, that the life I chose is my own car, No matter where I drive, the mileage can only go as far, As I say, I forgot to bring my attaché and its spilling endless drab, Shifting from under your gaze like shading glazed and posing like a prima donna, Where are you going to hide the bride and her burning cages? Run Run Run back into the sun and waste your optimism till its dead and dark and wet, "You'll never get that far", "You'll never leave this bar", and "You'll never own that car, Silly Ballerina", My sympathies are with her; it's going to be a hard rain, there is already a draft looming behind that open door, I didn't forget where I keep my sleeping pills, I tuck them in every night alongside my suicide plan, set and finalized. When the entire time all I had wanted, was to belong, like a song you couldn't seem to forget, not knowing why, I didn't think I was of use to you anymore so I just let the math and strings of it go, And watched myself float into your indifference like an incurable flu, This vaccine is part of the dream you won't wake from and I am growing numb and tired and slow, I used to dance on polished floors with wooden doors and growing encores… I used to ski, And everybody wanted a piece of me they couldn't get enough of my grace, or my taste or my skill, I was a little glass numeral imperial as snow; I was once proof that looks really could kill, Your forehead has recently become a map, Of debts and unfinished business, veins spreading galore, breaking new as day, warm as a sauna, I greet your salutations with iciness because I 've decided you don't keep track of half the things you say. That fall against packed snow, raw painfully shooting out, alone with me, myself and I, No one would ever know, Why she would sit in the studio and cry and observe as I, Would grown frozen as a bird perched on the edge of a season's sill, Just waiting to kill, The sorry demon that stole my heart and its last thud, Didn't leave me anything to settle with but a dying kettle of tea, But with time all sensitivity dies like old peeling skin, Who was it that called it, "Raping perfect beauty out of its bush and sac", It was what I once called a long evolving stroke, a dizzy pirouette, I stood before justice just like anybody else but nobody heard my plea, I was brought back for the second half of the match to put my word in the ring, But all the echoes shuffled back deferred and useless as placenta, You can keep sipping at your soda water, and blinking your eyes and I will be able to ski, And you won't recognize me, this time, because I'll insist that you win, And dance across your heart forever.
