But then we've all woken up
With stacks of books in our bed,
Waking quickly spilling coffee
All over the dress that was
Supposed to pull his sunken eyes
Away from the other boy you
Saw him kissing in the shower.
The river was made but never told
Which way to flow, but you
Will build a shrine of a dam
With misguided money mistaken for love.
Such a bold use of history,
Like the way you change your skin
In the summer when it's moral
To seduce. This must not be all
Things to such delicate and
Yet-to-flower wings, too soft
For sandpaper and too colorful
To photograph in black and white.
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