Its okay, I suppose for some,
To fall off the tracks
And come right back
Stamping my skin with frustrated bruises
Smoking too many cigarettes
Hurting your throat as I kiss you
It doesn’t work for me, so casually
I am dry and dead and reading Camus and falling asleep by eight
Dreaming of the flowers you planted in my breast
When you told me I hurt you because I did not love you in the two weeks.
You are sweet and naïve and silly and by far a greater con-man than I can ever be
I am quiet, with my cards to my chest
Just bring me back to the day you unfolded my limbs and I didn’t worry about hurting you
Or hurting me
Our clothing is amours so let’s disrobe.
Get me drunk so at least I have my excuses
for staying here
Again and again...
Monday, August 18, 2008
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