something different i guess:
l
o
s
e
yourself inside her.
Watch yourself become the new
sticking point for desperation.
Infatuation breeds regret like sighs of
contentment for a sunny morning-after
swallowed like a pill to kill the headache
that comes with strangers in your bed again.
You might just be a guilt
t
r
i
p,
but you'll never get told that.
The lines she's been walking she painted herself.
Forwards and backwards like kindergarten letters.
Written in the snow from
a fear of permanence and a lack of a pen.
Black shadows are digging a home for
themselves under eyes that blink blinded
by what masks itself as 'happiness'.
If
a
mold
could be made
she'd curl into
it and wait to fit.
Wishing only for conformity
to grab her and make her what
she's dreaming of.
Nights when the insomnia finally
gets lost in her maze of thoughts.
There isn't r hythm
or meter to what she's become
but her heartbeat is a form to
tapdance to quivering legs that
make new patterns on the kitchen tiles
spilling coffee to warm the awkward
intimacy of sunday-morning strangers.
oh yeah, this morning i had a dream you died. i woke up with tears on the edges of my eyes but quickly realized that it was just a repeat of the last time you did this.
o
s
e
yourself inside her.
Watch yourself become the new
sticking point for desperation.
Infatuation breeds regret like sighs of
contentment for a sunny morning-after
swallowed like a pill to kill the headache
that comes with strangers in your bed again.
You might just be a guilt
t
r
i
p,
but you'll never get told that.
The lines she's been walking she painted herself.
Forwards and backwards like kindergarten letters.
Written in the snow from
a fear of permanence and a lack of a pen.
Black shadows are digging a home for
themselves under eyes that blink blinded
by what masks itself as 'happiness'.
If
a
mold
could be made
she'd curl into
it and wait to fit.
Wishing only for conformity
to grab her and make her what
she's dreaming of.
Nights when the insomnia finally
gets lost in her maze of thoughts.
There isn't r hythm
or meter to what she's become
but her heartbeat is a form to
tapdance to quivering legs that
make new patterns on the kitchen tiles
spilling coffee to warm the awkward
intimacy of sunday-morning strangers.
oh yeah, this morning i had a dream you died. i woke up with tears on the edges of my eyes but quickly realized that it was just a repeat of the last time you did this.