Canada, my chest burns with the bouquet of cheap wine
It tingles up my arcane nakedness and beats itself out of my throat until my image of her is clear
Either that, or until the image of everything is clear
Thats how love works, isn't it?
You silently pick flowers and when they die, you are beaten
And when the car was introduced to its holy ghost, it seemed as though the butterfly became acceptable
I cried, though I loved that shiny silver belt
And I loved my mother
And I grew to love those damn bruises
And on dark streets and in the Church, I lift my hands and pray
For cops and gods are equivalent in the big scheme of things;
They both took her away from me without request.
And so here I sit (or stand, God only knows) within the mist of my blinded sanity, crying, touching the brown, glass bottle, not knowing depressions illusions.
I miss her.
O Dear God,
I miss her.
