I saw my therapist today.
We wrote a song about you.
It took hours, but he cared
enough about making a little
extra, so he let me stay past
the usual time to put my ideas
into a format that was more than
the usual outpouring of established emotional clichés, euphemisms, and horse shit motifs.
It didn't work.
I still want your eyes
crushed in my hands
and my tongue
sucking the
salt from
the black
sockets
of your
skull.
