non-fictionary; bringing it all down

i found a note in my pocket 
there were three words on it
islands,

boats,
and dreams.
i think maybe

because i wanted to tell you 
but instead i 
put it on a small piece of paper and tucked it into
the back pocket of the pants that i wear to work

that never feel like they fit right.
before the touches and hands
i'll say eyes
you'll say, it sounds okay
but you're wrong
i think.
dirty fingers like a ,
hands like a truck driver like a
drugged up guitar player.
hands like a railroad track smell.
i said, i smiled
you looked inside, or i thought
i thought i could
please can i?
i don't know who you are
 & i like it.
because there's never ever a time when
i don't look at you and my heartstrings don't react
there's never a time i don't want to put
my hands on your mouth
my soft ones , writing and writing and writing and
 then the dirt underneath your fingernails.
// because this is a new song that i relearn when i hear it again after all of the times i played the other ones to forget it and it's a terrible song, really, but god damn it's pretty, like too many violins in one room, just inside your heart, and down. down.  i have to write this out on you, i feel silly, i feel small, but i know how big it could be, how monumentally this could cascade, watersfalling & landing at the bottom of your sigh - kissing is just like it, if you don't know i can show you, if you don't know, just read it because i was born to listen carefully and i do it well,  the writing hand stays clean and pretty, ready and able, words are freckles and i never cover them up. i want you to dream of me and i of you and we will meet somewhere in the middle with warm hands and cold teeth and breaths that are more like invisible clouds that let the sky know it is not alone.

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