It's an attempt to solve the complex emotional DEALIOS inside with washing the dishes.
The soap bleeds over my fingers and I wipe every surface, sweep, trash, a little rearranging of the paintbrushes-and-fake-flowers in vase.
I purse my lips and even scrub out the trash can.
Slap the magnet on the dishwasher
it's all there in the kitchen.
so she says she doesn't want this anymore, been thinking, and i don't think i'm gonna go to LA anymore.
i remember all of it.
i chose to put all the dishes back in the cupboard. never very neatly--and i always stuff my clothes in my drawers. i cannot remember the last time i folded.
but i remember all of IT. Steer clear of burnup in your atmosphere. Because I'd die if...
So I don't think I'm gonna go to LA anymore.
Sing it, John.
Me and you.
You fit nicely inside the silver box that holds the time and has 3/4 battery, 2403 songs, or whatever. pictures too. the oldest, grossest, grayest-used-to-be-white headphones still crawl out.
"i just never got around to it." i hate logistics.
The streetlights say nevermind, nevermind, and the canyon lines say nevermind,
and the sunset says we see this all the time
never you mind.