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Pretty jazz music has turned ironic, in film and tv, when you hear it, something bad is about to happen, or is happening: a mouth or jaw splitting open, a funeral in the rain, they’re always in the rain, black umbrellas for hats.

A heart melts from someone’s fingertips on the back of the SUV, and this is always how it’s been, but I’m just starting to understand. Sidewalk chalk and bubbles were never just what they are but flowers in a grave, kisses and love making is slow Jazz in a an empty bar, tears for cathartic wrinkles of old men who know too much.

Why do I dream of dying, intense pain, then black, and why do I see that same dream behind my eyelids each time I get behind the wheel? And I see you die, too, every day, and I can’t help but imagine myself scream through drool, and this is dark, too dark, but there will always be Ella singing of four letter words, the good kind, so don’t you worry. 

Look up kisses on Pinterest. Intimacy is the last thing we’ve got.

  

Published by celinamcmanus

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