My hands think i'm an artist

That’s the thing about letting old lovers go. You don’t stop loving some of them. There are a couple you love no less than you ever did. Not to mention names.. but I’m still in love with a couple. You’re not going to try and make it work again, but if they needed you, you’d drop everything.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody’s asleep. I say, I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad. then I put him back, but he’s singing a little in there, I haven’t quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it’s nice enough to make a man weep, but I don’t weep, do you?

And you know that whatever tangible things you do have, they cannot be held, but, too will decompose and slip away through your course-skinned and death-rigid fingers. So you will rot in the ground and so you say, what the hell? Who cares? But you care, and somehow you don’t want to live just one life, which could be typed, which could be tossed off in a thumbnail sketch, “She was this sorta girl…