Water is two parts hydrogen,
And one part oxygen.
Lately I can’t help but feel love is two parts hydro,
and one part oxy.
Or is that one hydro and one acetaminophen.
The sun burns hydrogen to helium
To make light and life, the sun burns hydrogen to helium
Binding and bonding to make it so.
And like all fires, it will burn out.
Or instead of two, just take a vicodin,
And smoke a little, you need to mellow anyway.
Last night under the stars, in the haze,
Four corners of a little blanket on asphalt,
Chips and candy running like,
Water is two parts hydrogen,
And one part oxygen,
And all the while we’re telling these stories,
Romance and tragedy and strangeness,
And this smile, this smile, a fucking light in the darkness,
A light on the shore that a drowning man swims desperately towards, his raft torn upon the rocks, and the wind bites at him, and the waves slap him, and he sputters and he coughs, but there,
a light in the darkness, this smile,
I love this smile.
And the sun doesn’t burn like a log burns,
Where something is stripped from something else,
Torn apart to release this energy, this heat,
The sun is fusion, the bonding and melding of things,
You were drunk, you were drunk and told me of how amazing we could be,
And at your words I painted sunsets in my mind,
There the sun burning on the horizon, soaking the air in pinks and oranges and yellows, deep reds and purples. The colors dance on the undersides of clouds, and in the distant haze on the horizon, and the wind is just right to keep the clouds moving just enough that you notice but cannot tell, but still the wind kicks up little wisps of your hair as you raise a hand to gently push them back behind your ear, you take another drink, and tell me of how amazing we could be.
And the air is steeped in oxygen,
And I need another fucking vicodin,
Sitting here, in my memories, watching the night sky, smoking my cigarette, and fingering a little pink post-it note reminding me that I only get the one.
The one, where dinner was scrapped in favor of IHoP, and we must have smoked packs of cigarettes each, and I finally got to know what it would be like, the one. The one where I got a drop of water, but wanted a stream.
Water is two parts hydrogen
And one part oxygen.
And I’m hitting on the girl next to you, and the horror-writer leans over and asks what the fuck is up with this and why you let it happen,
And you answer,
And she spends the rest of the night cursing fairy’s tales.
When hydrogen and oxygen mix, they explode.
You told me once that you were sorry, just sorry, if it ended up that you left for good, and I looked you in the eye and I tried to muster all of the rage I felt for you and all of the times I wanted to throw things, how much I wanted to get my ass kicked by him just so I can say I literally fought for you, how much you had hurt me when you tried to do what was best for me, and tried to make that push the affection in my eyes aside, as I told you “No.”
“No.” You told me, and took the knife as we drove on the dirt along the creek. This big flip knife I found at Wal-Mart for a dollar, with a black plastic body and an emotionless gray stainless steel blade. You told me I wouldn’t get it back. And I cried, and I stopped talking, and I knew that you were scared, I was too.
At the restaurant, you saw a shadow behind me, and pulled your hand away, and turned off the faucet.
When hydrogen and oxygen mix, they explode.
Water is two parts hydrogen,
And one part oxygen.
Rocket fuel, sitting in separate tanks, waits to be mixed, and the brave men strapped to this hunk of steel silently give a nod and the captain leans forward with one gloved finger and presses the ignition and the oxygen and the hydrogen swirl,
And the blankets are swirled underneath as we fight for the upper hand, and for a moment I am on top and I catch your eyes, and deep in the iris you have these blue flames circling your pupils, like these two black suns that burn into me,
Chemical reactions take their course, but before they do, drips of water drop from the engine onto the pavement beneath,
I grab a paper towel from the dispenser to clean up the spill, as you put the ramen on the table with those shrimp egg-rolls and spinach pinwheel things and veggie chicken nuggets and ravioli and just so much so much so much, and I can’t help but think of egg sandwiches with mustard, coffee and papers, corn nuggets, water glasses and bitchy waitresses, and so much so much so much.
Light erupts,
That smile, I love that smile,
And the two liquids combust into billowing flames and smoke and great roaring grating growing noise that shakes the earth beneath our feet; the end of ages is upon us as the air is filled with nothing but smoke and fire.
When hydrogen and oxygen mix, they explode.
When you were drunk, you told me that we would have been amazing,
Water is two parts hydrogen,
And one part oxygen.
Sober, I tell you that moments we are amazing,
and that you have suns inside your eyes.
