It was minus 7 degrees and Tom decided to lay a path of hot coal.
It was time to concur some old sores, he said.
Because the soul is caught by blisters.
Tom, you know I don’t like the heat
my worst enemy is breathing boiled air.
You know the ozone is entering your lungs but it’s too doughy to actually feel it.
So you have no idea when those balloons are too full until you choke on it.
Come on, let’s concur our histories!
I’m terrified my history is buried in a cast on the bottom of the Titanic.
And I loath the sea and I dread the deep.
Tom would say that’s the way to kill two birds with one stone.
Screw you Tom.
I cut enough deals when I was young
I’m done with climbing mountains.
I always forget my walking shoes,
leave the bandaid at home in the kitchen,
one bottle of water is heavy enough,
fail to bring medical stuff to kill the pain,
I always suffer twice as much.
I’d rather roll over and play dead than dive into a blue lagoon.
There ain’t no beauty beneath my horizon.
Tom always decided how high we’d raised the bar.
The average height of a Dutch woman is slightly lower than mine but I still couldn’t meet his standards.
His pidgins flew past the blue of the sky
so my bullets came shooting back like a boomerang.
At least Tom always squeezed my hand when puffy clouds became a tornado.
Tom pushed me into those twirls
even though I called him the darkest shit.
When I came flying out like houses and cows there always was a slight relief.
Never sorry, no grief over lost memories.
But we shook a stir hand on victory!
Tom always raised the bar way too high.
But god dammit, Tom knew how to push a person to their limits.
He’d push my foot further into the gas while passing a cop.
Not acknowledging the law but maintaining my mojo.
Tom contained 100% swagger.
I contained self-doubt.
But thank god I met Tom.
Find yourself a Tom and make him push you into a blue lagoon.