orchestration in b flat minor

                                        In the frail, vulnerable, and weakened a.m. hours my love, you leave the light on.
                                        Sifting through Daily News piled upon corner coffee tables, below fluorescent lighting. Bedroom manuscripts scatter aimlessly in afternoon breezes. These arrogant teachings, these depraved pupils. The local elementary school's concrete infrastructure blackens through pure unadulterated evenings beside township swimming pools. I watched you lie, steal and cheat my love, with virgin legs beseeching me.
                                     Narrow pillared corridors in stale ancient courtyards. Village cemetery horizons now, mark your grim territory. Adolescent pilgrim peasants in revolt. I watch you walk these halls fretting and setting ordinary standards. You don't get me love, you never will.
                                    I was the guest talk show host that laughed at all your poor jokes.
                                    Evening patio moonbeams. Modern architectural vestibules and outdoor lampshades. In naive innocence, your bewildering eyes, crimson and violet crying out through lost cities, peering into ancient peepholes. A lukewarm bloodstream pulsates through your pale limbs, out to your fingertips. You cannot touch me.
                                    Slump your shoulders, you are not scared.
                                    Do not weep, what cannot love.
                                    That is left unsaid, you cannot speak. Blah,
                                    You are not true.
                  Orchestration in b flat minor to illustrate how far I come without you dear. I never needed you, I never will.
                                    Take the night train out through the rural outskirts. There is a beautiful eastern coastal region just waiting for you. There are people here who will hear your story. They will take you in, chew violently, then spit you out. In heaping piles of filthy garbage on basement floorboards, perishing in unforgiving population. You are common and conditioned at best.
                                   Youthful high school theatre photography dreams, worn and tattered. I got the family room blues again, right below your senior year portrait, it is not cute anymore.
                                   I was a stranger when we first met.
                                   I was a stranger when you left.
                                   How smart are you, really?
                                   Living with strangers and Fucking them.