Originally Posted by Eiji Tunsinagi

I'm bumping my own piece because I have the ability to do so. Sorry. Any more questions about this?

Originally Posted by Eiji Tunsinagi

*superlatively edited*


Dust floats like silent snow,
a harsh sunshine reflecting off
the hardwood frozen lake,
barren living room.

I stare across the cracking silence,
the ice that filmed my memories melts.
I reach into the cold depths
for photographs and crumpled love letters -

Polaroids of our dog's love affair
with her high-flying Frisbee.
A note written in haste,
red colored pencil for Samantha from 6th grade.

Once the trinkets leave,
and this house never speaks of their glints again,
as it once did in midnight conversations
with the lime green walls and hanging lamp -

on when I'll throw out that last cigarette,
on how long she'll wait for the baby to talk,
on when this party is going to end -
on leaving

the lights up all night to make love and cupcakes
at 2AM - who will do these things for us?
Who can we convince it is a good idea,
that the passion will always burn, for $900 a month?

Below the valley of second-hand books,
the mines of jeweled rings and necklaces,
under the dusty mourning hardwood floor
is an invitation and a dewy pasture.

The cello stands in the corner, righteous curves
which won't let me leave without one last play,
echoing down the hall to shake a photo or two -
the bed unmade and the floor not vacuumed.





__
A new version! Inspired by Pete and the Nina Nastasia album it is entitled after.

Originally Posted by Eiji Tunsinagi

*superlatively edited*


Dust floats like silent snow,
a harsh sunshine reflecting off
the hardwood frozen lake,
barren living room.

I stare across the cracking silence,
the ice that filmed my memories melts.
I reach into the cold depths
for photographs and crumpled love letters -

Polaroids of our dog's love affair
with her high-flying Frisbee.
A note written in haste,
red colored pencil for Samantha from 6th grade.

Once the trinkets leave,
and this house never speaks of their glints again,
as it once did in midnight conversations
with the lime green walls and hanging lamp -

on when I'll throw out that last cigarette,
on how long she'll wait for the baby to talk,
on when this party is going to end -
on leaving

the lights up all night to make love and cupcakes
at 2AM - who will do these things for us?
Who can we convince it is a good idea,
that the passion will always burn, for $900 a month?

Below the valley of second-hand books,
the mines of jeweled rings and necklaces,
under the dusty mourning hardwood floor
is an invitation and a dewy pasture.

The cello stands in the corner, righteous curves
which won't let me leave without one last play,
echoing down the hall to shake a photo or two -
the bed unmade and the floor not vacuumed.



__
A new version! Inspired by Pete and the Nina Nastasia album it is entitled after.