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Shane Koyczan & The Short Story Long
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Pulse
My flags are traffic lights, and at night it grows red, amber and green,
and I've seen them everywhere.
So I guess in that sense, the road really is my home.
And I've got poem after poem of what it's like to miss a home-cooked meal,
of what it's like to wake up and feel my arm draped over your absence,
because I miss breathing in your skin like incense.
And I bet you never knew that when I'm sleeping beside you,
I wake up just to make sure I'm holding you.
Feel like a mountain that doesn't know it's being climbed,
as your breath is timed with the in and out of mine,
I run my hand up your spine like it was the centre line of a highway with no stop sign.
Hit the intersection where your shoulder meets your neck,
and past the car wrecks of ex-boyfriends who parallel parked on dead-ends.
And I just hope your skin lends me an extra mile, so I can slow down.
Take a while to admire the landscape,
and drape my arm over your being there this time.
When it comes to your skin I'm a drunk-driver, just trying to walk a straight line.
And some days collapse on me like the night. I can tell I haven't slept when a light peaks through the blinds and finds me with my eyes wide open,
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hoping I can take all these poems I printed on post-it notes,
fold them into tiny boats then launch them towards the shores of your skin where they can begin to colonize.
Take up roots in your eyes,
weigh anchor in the harbour of your thighs,
till all the tiny hairs on your body begin to rise like a million flags brought to mast.
And at long last I know I no longer have to roam,
and I finally understand those sailors who plant their lips to the ground.
And I do the same to your body.
It's because you taste like home. And what I said was 'I'll miss you',
what I meant to say was 'I love you'.
What I wanted to say was that I meant what I said; I miss you like I miss my own bed after too many nights of sleeping on couches or hardwood floors or sitting silently behind the doors of hotel rooms that became wombs breathing life into this loneliness.
I miss you, like a burn victim must miss their own skin.
I miss you like a sad ending must miss someplace new to begin.
Because some say that the highline becomes a flat line if you travel it for too long.
I can't tell if that's true or false,
but I'm racing down it toward you trying to find my pulse.
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