Music Box

I'm sifting on legs without feeling, on a 2 AM sidewalk chill as the bullet in my heart. 

I'm going to die momentarily, in something of a pathetic and romantic tragedy. They, and by that I mean three "theys", came out of nowhere and shot me for a reason that's too embarassing to consider it worth my life. I said I'd wait for you. I waited, as I did, until my blood ran coarse like caramel from the squares and muscles froze from the snow you see in movies. Even when my life was threatened, outside your nearly-shut porch, I stood by taking the hits. And then 'the' hit. Maybe I assumed you wouldn't budge. Maybe I thought I shouldn't take souvenirs for the rest of my life. And that's why I stayed, at least for the moment. And so that's how that happened.

I'm stumbling, and trying hard with the last 17 or odd breaths I have to emit pure thoughts. Lights are getting out of focus, and I'm trying to twist them with my mind into something worth while. It all keeps coming back to you. And this music box I always carry with me. They call me the music box guy, as little that rings to the ear. You're always a part of the music box. A little drummer or dancer, always twirling with a face pale as two violet moons. Your music box can be bought anywhere... But this music box is mine. You are, with this music box, mine.

Its too late for someone to call the red cross. Its too blurry for me to call the white cross.

I suppose afterlife... which I thought a lot about... exists. Stories from the music box told me so. But its hard to think about that when I'm thinking about you. By relation.. You are... were.. my life. My afterlife. Even as I stumble down, knowing I'll never stand back up on my own two legs on this earth, I carry strongly in my legs a swagger that won't die. They'll find me spitting the blood of christ and tap dancing on my back. 

I made it just far enough so it doesn't shock you, and not far enough so I'm out of sight. I play distance like a jazzist plays electric guitar on the moon. On that note... What to do with the music box. You know, I have a clear thought. You.. some piece of plastic, have really been there. Some thing I bought just not to be lonely temporarily has been with me till my deathbed by the curb. At least I get to outlive you, music box. I get to hear you sing me to sleep, without having to cry at you going before me.

I just wanna ask you to play that song. Yeah, that song. You know the one. The one that makes me matter. Makes me matter to that person. When the dust settles, you'll be found playing for your last 30 seconds next to a nobody who was smiling. I don't have much longer. I'm gonna just let this play. I don't have a voice. But the box does. Better than I could say.