Growing

from Walls by nost.

	/

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lyrics

How does one grow fingers.

How does one open their hands when under three feet of undisclosable fully jeaned thighs - Friday night, studded, in another near-lover's downtown condo.

How does one link arms on a downhill dusk-dusted walk talking endlessly bout reservation, ironically letting the moment end in non-disclosure.

My specialty, I'd wager, is gauging her for aging spurs that turn her quick to hands I guess move sweeter than mine.

How do my shoulders look so much like flame to moths while hot with discomfort and so brazenly ashamed of me.

How does this throat hold every fundamental but fall faintly apart when like a drunken rose dips the ends of it's stalk to a bottle of vodka, drop each thing that made it open in the first place.

How do I face me facing you? Or, rather, refusing to.

The rest is restless and directionless. Lower hemispheres find time to peer through eyes they'll never know. A mess of me addressing less than honorary things.

Tie twine and string to Picasso feet. I make a joke of entropy.