4.1.20

in the cusp of my palm

right here for all to see
but no-one can see it

it's a definite maybe I might
and a howling nostalgia
my bedroom light

visited by ghost

for some order of 

ancestry

where did it come from?

does it even know its there

and i'm throwing roses in the rain,

throw roses in the rain

like my radio told me to

again and again

i watch them fall

and it's me writing sad poems

when i got nothing to be sad about at all

i'm just here by my window

with a garage bouquet

and they're not even roses

they're something close

and i'm throwing them with everything i got

so i can be a poem in the real

so i can be a song in the real

and Springsteen will come to me in a dream

in the burning of a Yankee Candle

in the paper of a lovenote

and say

"hey, you did a really good job throwing those roses"