Hanalei
The Eighth Nerve
ears ring in the bedroom / the smell of smoke in the curtainsI'm waking every hour when you claw into the lobeslungs fill with linen / the temples pull tightthe truth is in the tremor and the salted cold sweatone gasp to anotherthen back under / the undertowone escape to anotherI am without excuseall the dashing young lovers swooning in the bar lightprofessionally complacent smiling through the restaurant windowsthey inspired shamed jealousy and the weakness in spitefestered in the jaws of the quietest rageI hope the next person to tell methat everything will work itself outI hope you know / you better damn well knowhow to lie with conviction
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