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P.S. Eliot
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Asphalt
pass it off like a chore, we run late
racking for rationale to berate me
the coffee has gotten cold and i summon
patience as my fragile heart beats like a drum
this is not, is not language
no this is not love at all
my veins shiver as a spectacle
and you're stoic and tall
get up off the floor
i know this is a blurred, pitiful galore
and we all find solace in heartache and grief
some sequence of warm, self-loathing relief
we can't speak and
you poetically depart from me
written words like a marquee
and i can't move and i can't speak
this language is foreign to me
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i look outside, what do i see
steam off the asphalt from all the heat
and all the asphalt that i see
the steam just seems to follow me
and i can't leave without acquaintance
tagging along behind me
listen to me when i talk, in a trance
good advice bounces right off of you at first glance
we're alone in public spaces, we're always alone
isolated embrace, you're error-prone
you keep calling, shaken-up
dissecting every word thereof
this is not, this is not a language
no this is not, could not be love
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