Bon Iver - Perth

(Source: dwightschrute, via woooozy)

Eternity isn’t much when you hold it
like a moon between your fingertips.

Hey.
Let’s drink an ocean on the rocks tonight.
A toast to the east coast, to sea glass and paper cuts
and hearing your heart beat in every place he touches you.

And I say this now
knowing fully well that you’ve heard it all before,
drunk one night, hanging your feet off the edge
of the world, you must’ve told the person beside you
how small you felt,
how small you were
underneath an ocean of
falling tinsel.

But listen.
We’ve been living this conversation
since before the ages of watches and sun disks
and asterisks, in a time before people like me
could ever ruin the moon for us all.

So let’s call them ancient feelings.

The two of us, sitting looking at the same moon
that Neruda has seen, that Fitzpatrick has seen,
and when I say Fitzpatrick
I mean my middle school principal, not the man who wrote that one book
about the sad upper-class of Long Island.

Because I’m flossing my teeth with latitude lines
and I’ll never understand time zones or how
days even exist when the sun never meets a dead end
to make a U-turn.

I had a dream once that a love and I carved our names into tree bark.

The same night, a birch woke up shivering and wept —
its leaves falling onto the floor beneath it —
and he whispered to the woodpecker that he dreamt his roots almost
touched another’s.

And his blossoms wilted underneath a colder moon.