Lifted from the sophomore album 'Holding', out now on all platforms.
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I could barely stand to hold my head up,
thinking I’d be better off the grid,
cus I could only handle my own heaven,
yours was on another plane to his.

Cherubim and seraphim and lyres,
old Berlin and synonyms for tired.

Sinking in the car, I’d kick my floor in,
given all the stars it might be bliss,
the pulp from the memoir you left this morning
framed me in an orange, golden tint,

and if only I had bought the tape recorder,
just to hear you say those words again,
the way you just surrendered made it all the
sweeter,
I was yours,
I melted then.

You dropped it in and left it on the side,
the bathing water’s half of chapter nine.

Sistine blisters,
I was cricking my neck out trying to see our drawings of choirs get born.
Sixteen, shivers,
I remember my legs shaking in my head while you were making your bed up next door.
Caffeine rivers,
your letters, they read themselves in my head, I left them all on your doorstep that fall.
Fifty winters,
my sweater was red, you were growing your hair out, said you were fed up with it short,

but we’re on to something now.

Bliss redelivered,
I thought we had said not to pull at that thread when you
kissed me
my skin shed,
I had figured instead we’d begin to accept that it wouldn’t get better anymore.

Artwork by Mike Roth

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