ashcan rantings

my heart for you, it wanders, too, like the rain in your hair and the pulp from yesterday's glass of orange juice still sitting on our beside table. You tell me that freedom has a price and it rings and rings and vibrates all along the inside of my ears and I just smile like it's still unsaid and so it is, unsaid. Evocative, though it is, I remember nothing, and yet, as always, I remember only things unsaid and unreal. This is not the case you say. I cannot argue. Because it’s the unreal and unsaid that tells me that you are still mine and, especially, that I am wholly and surely—yours.