(no subject)
say anything, love. your words are a sweet wine, laced with arsenic. you're grasping through air, through intruding, unseen webs (and you're tearing me away, pushing me back, your nose is itching in confusion). again, i'm forgiving too hastily:
but when i look at you, and see how much i give, i want to give more (and you, no matter anything else said, deserve all i have). i could be laying here for too long, feeling as though i'm looking up at you through the eyes of a corpse. my heart is distended, and yours is deflated.
her hand graced my head, a hesitant, yet familiar and maternal touch. how do you seem grateful, without admitting it? but wanting to sing concerts. when will we both stop giving, when will i realise that it is a facade (and everyone has theirs).
luck? my dear, that has little to do with it.