The fight
You've got me turning
in bed like an oyster
dreaming of your world
and how to be part of it.
how you unapologetically throw
a glance over your shoulder
as if it was nothing more than a bag of medals
or some new addiction.
maybe I wish to be carried away,
maybe I already am.
hands on these shoulders
and the weight of should haves
These shoulders that have squared
circular arguments about Kings of Leon
and how you're not hipster, but alternative.
you press the right buttons
that ring a name,
your name
And the peephole girl I was,
knew she could no longer be
two eyes looking out from her
buttoned-down world
of haves and haves-nots,
that pressing someone too hard
will only leave you feeling sore.
that looking at someone means
they'll see into you too,
this is a ring with no where to hide
from the almost maybe-nots
that bloom in June.
You lean over me
shadow of a dream
promising no shade,
If only it was the sun that burns
my cheek.
If you are pining after someone
I would be disappointed, you
say, stretching out on the benches,
illustrating an autopsy.
And in that moment your eyebrows
scribed the invisible monologue
to which there can be no reply
some things ending in the why.
Wondering
as you waste (an hour) away, pharaoh-like
your emotions embalmed, my words
no more than sprinkle and salt,
whether it is the idea of you
I am preserving,
or simply
your reserve.
in bed like an oyster
dreaming of your world
and how to be part of it.
how you unapologetically throw
a glance over your shoulder
as if it was nothing more than a bag of medals
or some new addiction.
maybe I wish to be carried away,
maybe I already am.
hands on these shoulders
and the weight of should haves
These shoulders that have squared
circular arguments about Kings of Leon
and how you're not hipster, but alternative.
you press the right buttons
that ring a name,
your name
And the peephole girl I was,
knew she could no longer be
two eyes looking out from her
buttoned-down world
of haves and haves-nots,
that pressing someone too hard
will only leave you feeling sore.
that looking at someone means
they'll see into you too,
this is a ring with no where to hide
from the almost maybe-nots
that bloom in June.
You lean over me
shadow of a dream
promising no shade,
If only it was the sun that burns
my cheek.
If you are pining after someone
I would be disappointed, you
say, stretching out on the benches,
illustrating an autopsy.
And in that moment your eyebrows
scribed the invisible monologue
to which there can be no reply
some things ending in the why.
Wondering
as you waste (an hour) away, pharaoh-like
your emotions embalmed, my words
no more than sprinkle and salt,
whether it is the idea of you
I am preserving,
or simply
your reserve.