Million Dead Asthma
It's very late and I'm staring at my first guitar and
having doubts about my paramour. I'm kept awake by the
whitest noise, the frail voice that made me make a choice
i would ignore. I'm reaching for these notes although its
easier to sing falsetto than really strain. It's easier
to hide behind a line about a troubled mind then to
explain; that i am a cat to your asthma, and you are the
smoke to my cancer. And i can heal a break by walking on
a shattered limb with the bravest grin instead of a
tourniquet. But you cant clean a wound by wallowing in
words unspoken, vows now broken washing time away. I know
that i cant stem the flow with fingertips, the technique
wrong, the pulse too strong, im bloodied with my remorse.
But you dont leave the scar you scratch at it. In silent
halls and empty draws i'll measure out my loss. I am a
cat to your asthma, and you were the smoke to my cancer,
and you were the care to my violence, but I was the sound
to your silence.
