The Last Syllables

One-two, one-two.
Heartbeat. Don't stop.
You're the last syllable of all this time;
the only friend and only sign
that I'm still alive and beating,
trying to cheat my fate.

One-two, one-two.
Count the number of choices I had.
Count the heart that bled for me
when I had stabb'd it with honesty.
One-one-young-young.

And beat your last, oh bravest heart;
only I will ever know all of what you are.
All of what you are.

Continue on, no death yet,
through crazy deeds and philosophies,
sex and sermons, God and demons.
And every time you see one,
think of me as the only one-two-one.
Think of me (one-two).

And love your last, impassioned heart;
only I will ever feel this bleeding love unmarred.
Because I will be the scar;
I will mar this heart.

One-two, one-two.
Heartbeat. Your chest.
The strength I never felt but always knew
bewitches you and all your futures.
And you will be wild, and I, a child;
you will flow out, come far out,
and I will live in denial.
But through your beats, you'll feel my heart,
and I in yours to dwell in hell:
one-two, one-two, farewell.

So beat once more, oh lovely heart;
only I will ever see all these things you are.
And long your last, o'er distance far;
only I will ever be all of what you are.
And die this time, oh foolish heart;
only I will ever mar
this beauty with a scar.

~05/2004