Your eyes are the same shade as the the grey sky above that is suffocating
us.
Creating a vacuum, sucking and squeezing out the words,
but I'm not sorry you know,
about the color of your eyes, or the grey of the sky, or the words that melt
from between these welded lips.
Why can't you make these miles into inches, this perpetual sadness into
something more productive, like a smile, at least something more then my
cold clammy temple pressed tight against the bathroom tile.
The phone clicks, the photo slips, the cd skips, and the i've lost my grip
on all sense of reality;
baby please come home.
 
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