Past the fountain in the streets,
Past the grasses in the shades
In the trees down by the east river
A little girl held her heart in her hand.
In the little palms that had aged past her years,
She whispered to try and bring it to life
She counted the creases in the veins,
She rubbed on the bruises on the surface
She felt the weak pulses against her palms.
In between the rushes of god’s waters,
She felt it whisper back.
In a clear rasp that cut through her curtains,
“Take me Home.”

She smelled of a lot of vodka and a little of despair.
When he flipped her around by the waist,
She felt like a loose leaf that would float away with the breeze
So he kept close of her like she was his.
When she talked, she sounded like your favorite song fading out,
Deliberate and slow, and low and almost melts your brain from the back
The way her red dress clung to her ass had been exceptionally distracting
But between the semi darkness and the raw passion of alcohol
He’d toured her curves with best of his hands.
In between the seconds when the music died
She pressed her lips to his nape and whispered
“Take me Home”

Your mother was my theory to the universe
She was the universe in my theories.
But she wasted away with the brutality of time
Like the way nature reclaims an abandoned city,
Slow and gentle at first, and then all you could see was green.
I had promised her to never let her suffer,
And so when she nodded at that switch and found my eyes,
I knew it was time.
I saw her close hers, and murmur to me,
And to the blur between life and death,
“Take me home”

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