woke up this morning wanting a les paul

honey, I gotta admit I'm a sucker for it
when you tune your soul down a half step
and strum your fingers past your memories
as if your nostalgia could play chords

and darlin', the way you play your neck;
those vocal cords could croon out
industrial grade moodiness
reminiscent of Heathcliff

so I'll just gaze into the star-struck skies
while your guitar kisses me goodnight

greek drama

it's another night of jenny lewis
but I am sick of my pop-cultured life
through technicolor lenses

because all is fair in love-games of warfare
painted on screens with silver linings
as if life was nothing but theater

and after our performance
between the sheets
we wrote the script on

you left me the stages of grief
like an unwritten tragedy

mind/body/flute

it is only when I am perched
several stories above my mind
that hanging my body precariously
in the breezeway can ease
my shredded tendons; winds
whistling through pan's flute
as if wilderness could soothe
my frayed nerves, but I am not ready
for rebirth, and I am too tired
to spring forth anew into your life