mike sat on his porch with his arms crossed over his chest, listening to your music.  silence wasn’t involved but regardless it still hurt.  as he sat there, like a cornstock swaying in the wind, waiting to be shoved into your microwave and burnt to hell he though about it all.

the thoughts dripped down his forehead like sweat down the back of the talented opera performer.  the loves dribbled down your chin like the blood of cows in the neighborhood slaughterhouse.  how will he ever keep up?  not going to happen.  fortunately he’s not even going to try.