we are

the dead people,
floating logs in a dried up river bed.
but you,
you are the sun.
you are the moon.
you are the breath on the back of my neck.
and somedays i feel like falling asleep
in a stack of hay
and other days i feel like the 7 year-old third grader
blowing kisses to disinterested girls
in the back of an elementary school classroom.
and so lonely was the ballad of sad songs for so long
but no more! no more.
i used to think it was a beautiful thing.
but no more no more.