haunting on bank street

i do not have a name but you call me what you like and anything you call me by sounds like heaven falling from your lips and you speak sharp, cutting, and the sight of blood was never so sweet before i met you. youre the reason they say books are better than movies, because you are all words and poems and undeniably real and still youre enchanting like nothing else, not like hollywood but something i want nothing more than to read cover to cover, to memorize and know from the inside out. i dont want to know the rhythm of your heartbeat (and i do i do i do) as much as i want to become it. i want to sit in the space where your lungs should be, and i want to steady you when you stumble the way you do, falling over yourself like youre unsure or an imposition or trying to please someone not looking, and its when the sun hits your face through the window that i understand. i do. do you?

“if my train runs off the tracks, pick it up, pick it up, pick it up.”