I am the love killer,
I am murdering the music we thought so special,that blazed between us, over and over.
I am murdering me, where I kneeled at your kiss.
I am pushing knives through the handsthat created two into one.
Our hands do not bleed at this,they lie still in their dishonor.
I am taking the boats of our bedsand swamping them, letting them cough on the seaand choke on it and go down into nothing.
I am stuffing your mouth with yourpromises and watchingyou vomit them out upon my face.
The Camp we directed?
I have gassed the campers.
Now I am alone with the dead,flying off bridges,hurling myself like a beer can into the wastebasket.
I am flying like a single red rose,leaving a jet streamof solitudeand yet I feel nothing,though I fly and hurl,my insides are emptyand my face is as blank as a wall.
Shall I call the funeral director?
He could put our two bodies into one pink casket,those bodies from before,and someone might send flowers,and someone might come to mournand it would be in the obits,and people would know that something died,is no more, speaks no more, won't evendrive a car again and all of that.
When a life is over,the one you were living for,where do you go?
I'll work nights.
I'll dance in the city.
I'll wear red for a burning.
I'll look at the Charles very carefully,wearing its long legs of neon.
And the cars will go by.
The cars will go by.
And there'll be no screamfrom the lady in the red dressdancing on her own Ellis Island,who turns in circles,dancing aloneas the cars go by.
