Heart-Shaped Box

And this is my kind of love
It's the kind that moves on
It's the kind that leaves me alone.
-Mother Love Bone, "Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns"

On some foreign, borderline side of the bed
I just mapped out your silhouette.
It has become the warm side of the pillow.

Still, I wake up from my drowning man position
To misty-eyed, yet incessant peer pressure
Of ice-cold windowpanes with makeup of red stickers.

Every word sells itself very cheap these days.
Mass-production verses and the others in a pawnshop.
Anything goes--the heart, not represented.

You grow old, Love,
So you can't rememmber any longer
Passions with no Riot Act.

The warmth of empty glasses always teary-eyed,
And so is the helping hand of silent bedrooms,
The blinding glacier lights of nightly grocer stores,

The indifferent, but brotherly ragged hug of the sofa,
The mindless good night sleep of channel-surfing;
They're none about the heart-shaped box sincerity.

You grow old, Love.
Attraction is not born on your cracked smile,
The candy from your sleeve.

I built my world around my cold side of the bed.
The other one I just gave up to fantasy.
A heart-shaped box, the warm side of the pillow.