Howard Firkin
They sting: the lines you sing when things are dark;
the words that someone wrote for money and
a girl; the lines that didn’t work back then
and don’t work now, but still hit home, hit hard.
I don’t work either. Everything’s a line.
You tell me… what? You tell me words and I
respond with… what? With words… and having strung
my bead words, don’t they sound like something sung,
like something very like another lie?
I wouldn’t know. It’s all… what? All… what? Fine.

It stings. It hurts. It makes me want to cry.
It makes me want to hold you, smell your hair.
It makes me want to tell you… what? That I
don’t make a lot of sense without you there.