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Until the hankerchief of history covers us with its |
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Times new roman black and white post script, i will wear |
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Lavender shirts in yellow painted public restrooms, |
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Looking like art decco in my september complexion |
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And red against blue skies, |
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And have those pictures taken to be proof |
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Against the dull mood of your highschool history teacher that we wore color, |
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That we distributed the seeds of dead dandilions |
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In the cement surrounded city parts, |
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That we let our skin soak up the sun despite the advice of modern science, |
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That we sometimes wore our hair long and let it curl |
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And never combed it or put it in braids, |
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That we taught ourselves to play the pots and pans |
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So that we would have something honest to dance to, |
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Something soulful to sing to, |
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And sometimes we had trouble seeing past our own reflections in the bedroom window, |
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Because it was dark outside, |
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And the flourescents inside left shadows under our chests |
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And sculpted the torso to look it's friday night fittest, yeah i'm vain, |
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There was light here before there wasn't, |
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And before that there wasn't, |
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But seagulls still ate shallow water fish, |
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Morning boys still cast tall shadows |
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And all the while the stars are slowly seperating. |
