I'll Listen When You Stop Telling Me What I Want to Hear

Dave Orsborn

we sang like crickets in a purple atrium
incandescent scribblings up our arms
like a neon sailor
screwed, blued, and tattoed.
the floor moved like sand on the beach
and birds were flapping
up the backs of my legs.

i opened a beer
and flicked the cap
in your direction.
"you have no passion," you said.
"you want to talk but your mouth is sewn shut.
you've lost your heart."

your words were cherries on an apple sundae
and i wanted to
break you in half
like balsa wood.