Tumbleweed, I

BUSES (ACT I) 

Long ass bus rides,
Unfinished phone conversations with Mother,

Another goodbye,
Chewed up passport tucked into the folds of my sweater,

Broken wristwatch,
Shadows dancing on my only copy of Walk Two Moons,

I am always lost,
Deep inside the murky waters of my own thinking lagoon,

Past exits and tolls,
Of locations I don't bother to remember, it's all just a blur,

Where I want to go,
Has a blockade at its entrance, they don't want me, they want her. 

BEDS (ACT II) 

Dusk on hind legs,
It is 4:34 am and he doesn't seem to sense my discontent,

Shifting on the bed,
I rest my back against the headboard and start to lament,

How silence seems,
To taunt me with thoughts of that one mistake I slipped through,

Basking in moonbeams,
Drowning in calculations, how I'll climb over these walls without you,

Alarm clock reprimands,
Any notion that I'll be welcomed back, that things will be as they were,

Before he yanked my hand,
Away from the embrace of familiarity, but they don't want me, they want her. 

BUSES AND BEDS (ACT III) 

Bus exhaust fumes like before,
Collapsing into cramped seats, then he rests his head on my shoulders,

Life through dirty windows once more,
Assurance in his hands, doubt in the roar of the engine, remind me,

They don't want me.
They want her.

Tumbleweed, I

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© Hazim Haemoglobin 2012

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Tumbleweed,I


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