we never die when it’s appropriate;
instead, we linger to drag it all out.
instead, we drape our wings over electric heaters,
and wish the rain wouldn’t bother us so.
the patter, the drip and roar of spring rains,
reign in the desire to desire;
our wings droop, our loss reveals itself;
this winter has been harder than most.
what world have we infested
with our tribal loves?
what lives have we detested,
as we deny our angelic songs?
oh, die, appropriateness, die.
it was never for us to love you –
it was never for you to understand;
appropriate was never the plan.