Lift back the veil that hides you from me.
So every day is a day. I scratch the palms of my hands, pick at myself & readjust.
My nails have divots in them, pieces that cut and catch.
My skin is especially rough these days, traced with lines of the past & recirculated air.
Tin can airplanes that carom against clouds- we can do nothing with the hours.
We are mindless and weak against the passing of minutes
Let them scrape against me, let them pull me, pretend that my steps have purpose & their purpose is intentional.
Walking through these city streets, there's a sensation that we are together.
The clamor of our boots against the pavement
The scent of your skin, a 3 centimeter halo
But my desire for you is immeasurable
It spans the road, the corners of buildings
The boarders of countries
You are unknown & I am waiting
We're all waiting for the next day, for you to show your face & me to be invited
Every day, a "hello" is pressed between my teeth and lips
I choke back the disappointment when it is never said
And every day there is a motion to try, there is a gavel and a stitch
There are seams breaking, and corners of a smile to twitch
I can't let myself be anything past a binge
A soft line against a weighted metal framed mirror
A reflection of my face as I suck you down
Everything a past time, so much sweeter in memory than in principle
So honesty is the topic, and selfishness, and the notion of being disposable
Everything said is personal, even if you choose to deny it or ignore
And does this year mean I am getting older?
Does it mean I am questioning myself more than before? That I could possibly understand, that I could possibly define.
My motives all have deadlines & I am waiting for tomorrow to see them rise
I am waiting for a resolve, or a new hint
But it's all a theory & nothing ever comes
Even though every second causes a reaction, a redirection
The path is so deranged, and I am marveling at the fury of transit
Take this bus to you, away from here, into the underground, over a bridge, across an ocean
I can't escape the fever in my brain
My skin is still rough, my hands still itch
It's the thought, hopped up on drugs and an abundance of light, that I could turn that lock
and crawl my shaking body into bed
feel you wrap around me as dreams wrap around you
And maybe you wouldn't stir. Maybe you could just sleep
And in the morning we would be faced with the decision: talk or stay silent
Even though silence is never the option
There are always words beating in our mouths, our tongues flicking patterns of anticipation
I have to go back to you tonight. Mark my territory, and then take it away with me
Separate the shelves, the plates, the memories
And rearrange them in my new space
Could I rearrange enough that the past doesn't feel so weighted
That I can't see the frantic swimming of your hair- jutting out into the morning like warning signs
That my curls wont plaster themselves to my face, scream out tendrils like snippets of smoke and fire
Nothing can ever be the way I plan for it, the way I hope to disregard it
It's going to present itself in exactly the way I don't want, or the way I least expect.
So another train ride, potentially the last
To the old home, the old apartment, the old silent & sleepy battle field
For beers and categorization
for awkward pauses
For potentially something fitting, lovely, easy
or something opposite
My nails have divots in them, pieces that cut and catch.
My skin is especially rough these days, traced with lines of the past & recirculated air.
Tin can airplanes that carom against clouds- we can do nothing with the hours.
We are mindless and weak against the passing of minutes
Let them scrape against me, let them pull me, pretend that my steps have purpose & their purpose is intentional.
Walking through these city streets, there's a sensation that we are together.
The clamor of our boots against the pavement
The scent of your skin, a 3 centimeter halo
But my desire for you is immeasurable
It spans the road, the corners of buildings
The boarders of countries
You are unknown & I am waiting
We're all waiting for the next day, for you to show your face & me to be invited
Every day, a "hello" is pressed between my teeth and lips
I choke back the disappointment when it is never said
And every day there is a motion to try, there is a gavel and a stitch
There are seams breaking, and corners of a smile to twitch
I can't let myself be anything past a binge
A soft line against a weighted metal framed mirror
A reflection of my face as I suck you down
Everything a past time, so much sweeter in memory than in principle
So honesty is the topic, and selfishness, and the notion of being disposable
Everything said is personal, even if you choose to deny it or ignore
And does this year mean I am getting older?
Does it mean I am questioning myself more than before? That I could possibly understand, that I could possibly define.
My motives all have deadlines & I am waiting for tomorrow to see them rise
I am waiting for a resolve, or a new hint
But it's all a theory & nothing ever comes
Even though every second causes a reaction, a redirection
The path is so deranged, and I am marveling at the fury of transit
Take this bus to you, away from here, into the underground, over a bridge, across an ocean
I can't escape the fever in my brain
My skin is still rough, my hands still itch
It's the thought, hopped up on drugs and an abundance of light, that I could turn that lock
and crawl my shaking body into bed
feel you wrap around me as dreams wrap around you
And maybe you wouldn't stir. Maybe you could just sleep
And in the morning we would be faced with the decision: talk or stay silent
Even though silence is never the option
There are always words beating in our mouths, our tongues flicking patterns of anticipation
I have to go back to you tonight. Mark my territory, and then take it away with me
Separate the shelves, the plates, the memories
And rearrange them in my new space
Could I rearrange enough that the past doesn't feel so weighted
That I can't see the frantic swimming of your hair- jutting out into the morning like warning signs
That my curls wont plaster themselves to my face, scream out tendrils like snippets of smoke and fire
Nothing can ever be the way I plan for it, the way I hope to disregard it
It's going to present itself in exactly the way I don't want, or the way I least expect.
So another train ride, potentially the last
To the old home, the old apartment, the old silent & sleepy battle field
For beers and categorization
for awkward pauses
For potentially something fitting, lovely, easy
or something opposite