Twenty-two years and still this heart doesn't understand language. Jailed by its centric complexities and failed by a pathetic sensory.
This a story gun. I can put three inches of it in my mouth and let my trigger finger take me down whatever route. Then you'll be tellin' stories. You'll be talking about how I'm not this kind of person, how I've seen much worse and God how we used to be friends.
Well, my childhood chum, the one who saw me run seven blocks from a dog and kept going despite the futility of the jump, and laughed and cried with me over broken bones and breakup sympathies, it seems if I weren't that guy, excited by nickel-wound strings and vinyl discount bins, then maybe I'm already dead. And the only way to tell me apart from the boy with a barrel to his jar is the conic splash pattern behind him.
Because, maybe I'm not collecting dust in a ceramic coffin or nailed shut, left to rot, and maybe I'm still here.
Maybe I'm still writing.
But it doesn't void the fact that my heart beats less than a rain drum in an Arizona summer.
