letters from jamaica

when the time on the digital clock is three of the same numbers in a row it makes me nervous. remember that night i played "buckeye jim" by burl ives in your room over and over? i was laying in your bed looking up at the ceiling, it was probably looking back. what it was thinking i'll never know for sure  but  it probably thought that if songs could bruise this girl would leave them battered. and oh the things i have torn up and spit out, you could make a fountain, you could swim in it, or throw your pennies in it for wishes, i guess, or whatever. if i had a claw-foot bathtub i'd get in it right now with sunglasses on and let the bubbles do the talking, let the water do the writing. i'd look at my fingers and they'd be wrinkling slowly, indenting like the water was looking for ways past the skin -- "away we go" we say, like it's that easy. there is something big about this time of night but it's a secret so don't tell. i wonder if the sky cries cerulean when the sun starts to climb up inside of it, maybe every night it says "no" but ever so softly, how a night sky only could. the sun will never listen, not ever maybe, like a heart that won't slow down or  three bright red numbers in a military line glowing in a dark room. 

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