(no subject)
You're no good for me, my formulated drug. An acquired taste awaits to sate this unrequited love. It tastes so grey, yet necessary to sustain frustration. Take just enough to get you fucked up, not so much that it drives you away.
A constant escape. The magnificent restraint that it takes to stay away. I've no control at all. I constantly dream. The memories invade the things I keep with me. I'm getting high on the roof of the world. You are the bent and blackened spoon. You are the butane. You are the bedroom. You are the improbable excuse for the horrible things that I do. You're no good for me, but I guess not bad enough. On quiet nights I come to find you crawling through my kickdrum. Hell bent on deliverance of all the priviledges of being with you. Heaven sent. I crane my neck to watch you desperately march down my chest, enjoying every step. Emphasized by distances we never intended. You come crawling back through my regrets to remind me what you said.
"We're no good at this."
- crime in stereo always rips the words right out of my head.