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The Reverend John DeLore
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Avenue A
Her body is much younger than her movements might suggest, clutching at her breast, eyes distant and dispossessed.
Where she goes when the sun goes down is anybody's guess. All I know is she wears her loneliness like a wedding dress.
She'll tie a ribbon in her hair if she wants to forget you, and a ribbon around her finger if she wants to take you with her when she goes.
And where her body bends is where the book of love begins. It's the same place that it ends, and begins once again.
The taste of blood on her lips always reminds me of the South, where the mouth of a mother so merciful first taught the hills to sing.
Where the Southern Belles of Bedlam ring across a valley of dolls, and the fruit of the moon falls from a tree cradle and all. Cradle and all.
And the days they will come to an end for reasons that you and I can't comprehend. We both know that the heart that won't show itself grows cold.
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On the corner of Avenue A, she buys a peach and I buy a plum. I kiss the palm of her hand and she kisses the crown of my thumb.
We are drunk among all these banners, and we walk like we own the streets. Where the falling leaves meet the rising steam she takes her leave of me.
Where she goes when the sun goes down is still anybody's guess, but she tells me I wear my loneliness like a bullet proof vest. (oh, no)
And the days they will come to an end for reasons that you and I can't comprehend. We both know that the ghost that won't show itself grows cold.
You and I. You and I. You and I.
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