January 02, 2006 | 11:02 p.m.
your blood, your bones, your voice, your ghost.

when the twenty in my wallet read, “expect a miracle,” i hung my hopes so high that even we could not reach them from the tips of our tired toes.

i am too much to hold at times and/or your arms don’t open wide enough.

just please, please, start to want this year with me. come crawling home, however slowly. for you, i’ll leave my lights on, but baby, those bulbs they're bound to burn out over time.