The words to that song I finally wrote...

(Fm C Eb Bb)
I'm writing to thank you
for building me a shell
I hope you can afford it
Hope you're getting well
I crawled into that car stereo
Inside I hear you
quoting Dostoyevsky
(by yourself)

(Bridge? Verse? Whatever. Bb Eb C Eb)
I hope everything is as I left it
I hope all those strings are in order
You know they're precious
I wish all these hemlines still fit
But I know it's just a test
to see if we still exist

(And back to...)
I'm writing to thank you
for building me a shell
The less light bounces off you
the more you are yourself
and I am someone else

(I am going to try to record it/make it nice, but I have an embarrassing lack of microphone)

July 2nd? Already? This is a make-up

You're the smallest
free form
so small I sometimes
forget you

When I get nervous,
I could swear you
melt in my cup
show up in my veins
three days later
so damn amorphous
those little drips
of air
like sweat
get claustrophobic
and fizzle over

Maybe if you're lucky
you get a hiccup

june 29th

A dressing room and house lights.
Greasepaint on the wicked stage.
Lines, always doing your lines.
Motivation. Left right and centre.
Curtain. Blackout. Fade.
Methods, madness. Maybe
a musical. Those ingenue
scenes again, always
the drama. In the chorus.
In the wings, catwalks.
Auditions, a forgotten
circle of the Inferno.
Dress rehearsal. Rehearse
for the possible applause.