I can’t tell
whetherI don’t trust youorI don’t trust myself around you
I can’t even turn
the pagethis inability willend any story
The desire to leave a mark,
some sort of lasting impression,drives the handto the pento the page.But what canthe frantic scribblesof a worn-downindividualactually doamidst theswirling fluxof the cosmos?We all want to be remembered, but is it worth the effort?
I know, it’s all been done before
Do I want to do it again?
I’m scared of what I might find
if I dig deep inside myselfor deep inside your self
deal me out
I can’t stack the odds amidst this chaos
caution cautious
Can I be so,
fuck,where are the words.What do I even want to say?I don’t knowthis is pointlessfuck it
I would have told you
that I’d make us lattesin the morningand you would have stayedin my bed instead I chose tonot watch you leaveand thought of all thepossible worldsin which I told youabout thetwisted tangledtapestryI believewe have woven
I feel your fingers in the breeze
as it danceson my fleshthe wind carriesyour voiceto my earsand down into medeep insideto that long forsaken placeclosed off to the worldfor a yearthe old wooden cigar boxsealed shut for so longbut the wind is beginningto flow through the crackswill I be able tolet you in?will I let youread everything?you say you share my painbut […]
