A postcard of apple cores on spit strained wooded floors

I spent an evening getting practice looking bored

And there's a leaf on the sill but it won't be there tomorrow

Just some memory that I made it never really goes the way I planned it to

I'll tell it like you want all parts appeal and none that don't

I love your face the way it moves your murky mouth your eyelid brooms

And I'm feeling that cobweb apprehension

You're taking pictures of me as I fall down the stairs

And it seems so awful if not for my glasses and hair

You say I'm your white cast kid, I was born for your cares

Why you gotta label me now, why, why now?

So I opened up the door I know now what you're for

But still not who you are

So who, who, tell me who

And then you leaned into me and whispered rather softly

"Your feet don't fit the branch"

It never really goes the way I planned it to

I'll tell it like you want all parts appeal and none that won't

Like worthless words that you spit out, the foaming garbage of your mouth

I'm always listening; I go rummaging through a dumpster of speech

You're taking pictures of me as I fall down the stairs

It seems so awful but this never happened who cares

I'm your T.V. taught child; I'm your sweetest affair

When the alarm clock goes off you will disappear

But I loved your face the way it moved your murky mouth your eyelid brooms