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It was the weird, polite way she told me my poetry was shit.
But I always think about her around her birthday.
I wouldn't say she was the only woman I ever loved...
but maybe my intentions were the most pure then.
Every day was a strange daze into adventure.
I guess that's what crazy is. You never knew what to expect.
So tonight, while I listen to the snow melt, I think about your porcelain pale ass parked on my porch, and hot-pink lips pursing around a cigarette.
I miss you.
The most.
Maybe for the right reasons.
Maybe for the guaranteed survival of our copper-haired race of pyromaniac geniuses.
Maybe for the crazy shit you said in the dark.
