I’m talking to you

I’m trying to communicate in my own way. I’m ashamed and embarrassed of how I acted. I’m talking to you in my own way. I’m operating a telegraph booth in the desert. My hands are tired from tapping out the beats of my love for you. It’s indestructible. It’s best not to be fucked with, if you’ll excuse my French. I’m excusing you but understand that it’s at your own expense. I’m looking into you talking to you about you and when you have woken up inside you’ll sit up and feel that little bubble. That little tiny burst of hurt heart once inside again trouble. The wisdom you had in pulling all my teeth out. The way you left me there rotting, smiling, that grin of the dead. The way you tend to feel about gravestones. They were teeth and we pulled all of them out of the ground. The corpses one by one decided to get up again and maybe try it all again again anyway because, hell…