i'm still a note that's unplayed, ink on a page
a crippling liter of red wine spawning ideas and intercourses and years. paris and violins took away my voice but most people prefer silence anyway. broken coffee cups and bones, feathery veins on trembling hands and never enough space. i turned the other cheek for the last time and walked out the door.
now when people move me toward love their words are suspicious and welcome and they hit in a series of tiny explosions under my layers of tightly-wound coils and sharp edges. sometimes i feel like i am living under water, seeing faces through liquid light and just believing. sometimes i feel surrounded by an intangible stretch of everything at once. i think i need some new obsessions.
now when people move me toward love their words are suspicious and welcome and they hit in a series of tiny explosions under my layers of tightly-wound coils and sharp edges. sometimes i feel like i am living under water, seeing faces through liquid light and just believing. sometimes i feel surrounded by an intangible stretch of everything at once. i think i need some new obsessions.