Pocket Watch Pocket Change

Rewritten patchwork song. For special ears only, which means the masses will probably hate it. It's rough but I don't care. Whop!



I got so much to say but words won't fit in the space between your arms
and it's hard to act detached when your fingers are wrapped around the weight of my heart
it's all your fault if I fall apart

cause I'm wrong for you right now
you are right for me somehow
all we have is what we make and what we break
from our beds to our wedding vows...

so we dance in an alleyway and watch the ashes from our hands fly
watch the rain water down your expression watch your shadow as you say goodbye
you disappear right before my eyes

cause I'm wrong for you right now
you are right for me somehow
all we have is what we make and what we break
from our beds to our wedding vows...

I wish I may be right for you on stray eyelashes and pocket change
perhaps you're misinterpreting the end of that recurring dream
I know your haves and wants are very different shades of grey
cause when I kiss you the color shows all over your face...

cause I'm wrong for you right now
you are right for me somehow
all we have is what we make and what we break
from our beds to our wedding vows...

Pocketwatch by maid mosephine

Can't let a year pass by without adding to the pile of schmwords that come out seldom now that I'm without the time to pay attention. The cat jumps up and down, attacking my ankles while I'm in my bathrobe, and I plead with him to wait until I'm better prepared. Please, kitty, wait until I've had some coffee. All I can say is that I'm editing now, moving from creator to whittler, engineering out all the superfluous references to passe lifeperiods. I don't go for walks anymore. I have a destination from the moment I wake up. It is good, and the cat thinks so too, as one of my first destinations is to fill his food bowl, but after that I yearn for the wanderer inside to wake up.

Are you there?

You and your socks and umbrellas and sweaters, you and your haircuts and talk-to-you-laters. Me and my bathrobe and half-written letters, me and my inbox of please-do-this-betters.

It's in there somewhere. A request from you or me to make a connection.

Shit or get off the pot is the saying.
So I don't have to.

Hats are for special occasions.