It’s to late for a Phone Call from you;

It’s to late for a Phone Call from you;
My mind is lost in midnights

Its midnight and my legs have fallen asleep
I can feel my heart beat past my waist
And I remember how Baptist churches haunt me
And phone calls are never enough

I remember dreams in fragments of leaves and shadows
Southern draws in sweet tea and seashells
Car rides in the smell of luggage and fast food
Grandmothers in dust and boxed up old shoes

My hair sticks to my face and neck, laughing at me
My eyes are dry, and trace out specks of dust
I’ve lost track of the ends of my fingers
And my toes decided to dance with dead winter cicadas

I hate the feeling of piano keys under my eyes
And the twitch in the corner of my window
Under bright yellow dying leaves at three AM
Holding its breath until dawn turns them green again

Words weren’t the things we relied on alone
It was lips and fingers lost in wound sheets and blankets
Your whispers grew stale as time slipped down
And I became frantic at every thought that passed away

Funny how diamonds can’t break, and cement can crack
That muscles in your body are said to break in sadness
How silence can be louder than any note invented by our ears
And that your face is the only thing splattered in my dreams

Broken wire looks beautiful in bouquets, spilled gasoline in the sun
But when bruises are put under the sunshine, smiles turn down
Truth slips out awkward as family dinners and short conversations
And everything goes downhill ringing from my telephone

Trust is a silly thing I throw around like glass
And how I handle it is worse than bad news on Sundays
But when midnight begins to ride the railways
I hop on, leaving all my thoughts behind.