I don’t want to spend the rest of my days
turning your socks inside out
(I know that I don’t have to
but I do I do I do it anyway)

Standing at the place where your life was so savagely stolen from you, all of your misplaced hope and cancelled dreams shot right through me. I looked for some sign of the loss—for evidence of cruelty at the beauty spot, for blood in the grass, for the sound of your last gasp—but I knew I wouldn’t find any: to many you’re just another pretty little lady murdered in the big, ugly city, forgotten to most now you’re long dead and buried, (your story should make me worry but it doesn’t) and I am so, so, so fucking sorry.

Our relationship is “Positively 4th Street.”
I’d send you the song
but I won’t let you ruin Bob Dylan for me.


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