unplugged soul

I showed him my blog if he promised never to speak of it again. 

He said, "I'll never say a word about it. Promise."

And he never did.

Until he passed this to me as he left, the last day of Art History, and whispered, "You didn't say anything about writing."

"She's got an unplugged soul.

She's got an unplugged soul, but a part of her keeps singing.

She's got an unplugged soul, lighting me like a bass.

She wrote the book on good girls,

then strangled me with spun gold chain.

She's got good girl with a shot of shame, under those good girl eyes where

she drives words like wheels.

She's got city eyes, metal eyes, for concrete towns and paper boys.

She looks like now

and talks like infinity.

But I'm too wiry for good girls.

She likes labels and I like her.

I like her raw nails and crooked knees.

She's got cold hands and yesterday's stains,

but I like her lips.

I like playing back the hours of those midnight lips.

She's made of Shakespeare and seashells,

while I'm still cold on coffee she won't drink

and time she won't give me.

But time,

it can be stolen,

and she's the greatest thief I know.

The one who so casually steals my soul.

She, she is art

and I am history.

I am solitude,

stolen by a pair of lovers eyes and a magnificent mind.

She is art

and I am history.

Beating to the same drum of the same soul,

the same unplugged soul,

making music and madness,

playing heaven and hell,

and I like her.

I like her."

-JG