In Your Version Of This World
These nights these nights I'll tell you about these nights, darling.
These are the nights that sparkle and then blur to one continuous strand of light.
These are the nights that people come together with drawstrings, pulled closer and tighter, smiles and whiskey. For a moment I shattered, and then they picked me up off of the dirty pub floor, marveling at all the shiny bits. Every time I fall to pieces I can be swept into the same pile, and they rebuild me into something new. If I stop to breathe there's a catch in my throat, so I let it all be inhaled in flurry of hours.
I watch the sun slide so prettily across the glazed window pane, the thick dirty clouds cycling in with loose focus to dissipate just as quickly, rain to sun to rain again, the hands on the clock spinning. These are the nights where I find new faces and learn their lines, watch for a recitation of signals I used to think I knew. Swift as three darts they find their mark, and I laugh so hard my face hurts and the old tears find new ones have moved in.
If you think I lied you're wrong, if you think I forgot you're wrong again. What I thought, what I think, all of these are so easily questioned. I'm standing on a small crowd, letting the multitude of witnesses bear me, and each time one steps away there's that vertigo again, telling me how far away the ground is. For every one that leaves, it seems, three more step up, or grow bigger, and I smile with a quick and quiet relief as my feet stumble to their new footing.
In your version of this world, you're everyone's favorite girl, but that doesn't mean I have to write the history books with you. I have my own books and ledgers, and I'm erasing all the tallies with a firm hand, spreading pink eraser crumbs across the green-lined page. I still have the pictures, I still have the drawings, and the promises, actions, words, the ringing in my ears.
Here's to another one, you and I, separate rooms while the fur still flies.
These are the nights that sparkle and then blur to one continuous strand of light.
These are the nights that people come together with drawstrings, pulled closer and tighter, smiles and whiskey. For a moment I shattered, and then they picked me up off of the dirty pub floor, marveling at all the shiny bits. Every time I fall to pieces I can be swept into the same pile, and they rebuild me into something new. If I stop to breathe there's a catch in my throat, so I let it all be inhaled in flurry of hours.
I watch the sun slide so prettily across the glazed window pane, the thick dirty clouds cycling in with loose focus to dissipate just as quickly, rain to sun to rain again, the hands on the clock spinning. These are the nights where I find new faces and learn their lines, watch for a recitation of signals I used to think I knew. Swift as three darts they find their mark, and I laugh so hard my face hurts and the old tears find new ones have moved in.
If you think I lied you're wrong, if you think I forgot you're wrong again. What I thought, what I think, all of these are so easily questioned. I'm standing on a small crowd, letting the multitude of witnesses bear me, and each time one steps away there's that vertigo again, telling me how far away the ground is. For every one that leaves, it seems, three more step up, or grow bigger, and I smile with a quick and quiet relief as my feet stumble to their new footing.
In your version of this world, you're everyone's favorite girl, but that doesn't mean I have to write the history books with you. I have my own books and ledgers, and I'm erasing all the tallies with a firm hand, spreading pink eraser crumbs across the green-lined page. I still have the pictures, I still have the drawings, and the promises, actions, words, the ringing in my ears.
Here's to another one, you and I, separate rooms while the fur still flies.