fine lines; your aching heart.
"matt," he says, calling out with that deadpan look of a fourteen year old whos taken in the methmask one too many times to any longer have a heart. but its been seventytwo hours and thirtysix minutes, fortyfive seconds and half a pot of coffee in the past ten minutes since youve actually said my name, so matt takes the liberty to look up from from his newspaper if only to offer a pensive glance to the pale kid in the seat before his cereal from what seems like so far across the table
( 24inches, .08centimetres, and only a fraction of a millimetre off but it doesnt count, it never counts, and even with all the flaws in your skin i think i still ____ you )
"i miss you."
the cereal sways from the weight of his words, nothing short of air but still it moves as though to make up for the very reason why he wouldnt be. refuses to be. couldnt. and something close to maybe four letter words like expletives form with the start of a sentence on the front page story die out in the spread beneath his illmannered fingertips, concrete gaze to help him lie through his teeth and take whats coming because he knows noah could never feel it enough to mean it, "i never left."
but the kids voice is steady and his soul is sincere, brass like clockwork but turning on a broken wire that stretches out towards nothing but a rusting edge container; pocketwatch, nineteenth century-- hed found it in the rubble after they tore down sector six of the city beneath the old train station sort of in the same way i found you except without the emotions, instead with that smile
lost and unforgiving
and maybe thats what caught me, hook line sinker to your lacklustre anomaly of a stillbeating heart and maybe were both telling the truth while trying to buy time. cant help but still be skeptical and unbelieving for a twentyfour year old bastard living off dreams that show us a future with a view from the citadel as it crumbles
"were not gonna make it."
theyd raided the grocery store fifteen minutes from here where we used to get our cigarettes, where the kid with the hair puts the paint near the eggs because thats where they belong, with one another for convenience rather than ease of painstaking memories ( cover you up in what little remains of the truth if only to set you out and ask me where to look to come find you ). search for a kid with a clover on his hip and somehow my fingers knew it had to have been you
"theyre coming for you."
"yeah."
( 24inches, .08centimetres, and only a fraction of a millimetre off but it doesnt count, it never counts, and even with all the flaws in your skin i think i still ____ you )
"i miss you."
the cereal sways from the weight of his words, nothing short of air but still it moves as though to make up for the very reason why he wouldnt be. refuses to be. couldnt. and something close to maybe four letter words like expletives form with the start of a sentence on the front page story die out in the spread beneath his illmannered fingertips, concrete gaze to help him lie through his teeth and take whats coming because he knows noah could never feel it enough to mean it, "i never left."
but the kids voice is steady and his soul is sincere, brass like clockwork but turning on a broken wire that stretches out towards nothing but a rusting edge container; pocketwatch, nineteenth century-- hed found it in the rubble after they tore down sector six of the city beneath the old train station sort of in the same way i found you except without the emotions, instead with that smile
lost and unforgiving
and maybe thats what caught me, hook line sinker to your lacklustre anomaly of a stillbeating heart and maybe were both telling the truth while trying to buy time. cant help but still be skeptical and unbelieving for a twentyfour year old bastard living off dreams that show us a future with a view from the citadel as it crumbles
"were not gonna make it."
theyd raided the grocery store fifteen minutes from here where we used to get our cigarettes, where the kid with the hair puts the paint near the eggs because thats where they belong, with one another for convenience rather than ease of painstaking memories ( cover you up in what little remains of the truth if only to set you out and ask me where to look to come find you ). search for a kid with a clover on his hip and somehow my fingers knew it had to have been you
"theyre coming for you."
"yeah."