there’s a drain pipe by your old apartment complex. long strips of black broken up by beams of light from a town i hated. i could only make it so far before wanting to turn around, and even then the narrow walls and light at the end reminded me of death. looking back now i can only hope that death is as beautiful.
during the winter months, too stoned to walk, i’d occasionally step into the drain water when trying to leave. it was dirty, but the freezing temperature made it feel cleaner than it was. it’d seep into my sock like ice water. it’d stain my clothes but i could have sworn that it meant nothing. i guess i just associate coldness with purity.
now you treat me well even when we don’t talk much after.
and i act like you’re pure even when i know that you’re not.
i’ll let a hot afternoon turn my blood into ice water.
and we’ll stain our clothes and swear that it means nothing.
i guess i just associate coldness with purity.