My eyes are closed and I see:
There are hues of red. The branches break. I can almost taste the wind again and the way it bounced off the floor of that old field.
Smiles filled the air like balloons at a carnival, but with less happiness. There was more in the broken hymns than in the stories of Sunday school. I've been to Saturday school and liked it more. I guess it's just a difference in opinions and hopes.
Maybe it's a difference in responsibility.
Summer came like Winter's blade:
Through the rhythmic beating of fists on Formica counters came the blisters of the song. Though, no one seemed to kiss the blade of Winter like the embrace of Summer. For some, there was a bout of peace.
We just wondered what peace was about.
So I wrote a piece, but forgot what it was for.
What's it all about?
Now we find the truth:
It's hidden beneath old memories.
There's not really anything of importance.
This is all just dredged up bull****.
If you want I'll sing you to sleep,
But I'll sing it in a language you have yet to understand:
Love.
Opened eyes see better anyway:
And now it's all becoming real again. I was passing glances at the past. I didn't see anything new, but reveled in the old. I kissed you again in those memories. They haunt me. I must have breathed you in too deep. Did you know that I can love you in Spanish, too? Te amo.
I'm starting to lose sight of the meaning of these words. Too many prepositions and conjunctions. Too many things I forgot I knew.
I wish I could forget I knew you:
But I drag your number through my phone twice a day. It makes me feel creepy, but you make me feel whole. I think I'd be better off with you if I used semicolons and made semi-smart remarks.
So here it goes:
I'm dragging this heavy load through fields of broken dignity, clutching the melodies of songs we sang in Georgia (or about Georgia). Your omnipresent image plagues the few dark spaces of my brain; you're no longer welcome here, or anywhere.
How's this for goodbye:
Goodbye?
I think it's better said, "Come home." I use that line too much.
You're already tired of me and so am I. I'm just tired of our bull****. Hell, I'm tired of loving you. Let me let go. Disappear.
How's this for goodbye:
Hello.
I wish this were the movies.
I could have you from that word.
God knows that's what I wish.
I'm gonna leave your memory behind because it feels like dirty quarters and broken glass. I'm scared of getting dirt inside my cuts. You're already a bad enough infection; it's no secret that you spread.
I'll cut you out completely, dirty whore.
There are hues of red. The branches break. I can almost taste the wind again and the way it bounced off the floor of that old field.
Smiles filled the air like balloons at a carnival, but with less happiness. There was more in the broken hymns than in the stories of Sunday school. I've been to Saturday school and liked it more. I guess it's just a difference in opinions and hopes.
Maybe it's a difference in responsibility.
Summer came like Winter's blade:
Through the rhythmic beating of fists on Formica counters came the blisters of the song. Though, no one seemed to kiss the blade of Winter like the embrace of Summer. For some, there was a bout of peace.
We just wondered what peace was about.
So I wrote a piece, but forgot what it was for.
What's it all about?
Now we find the truth:
It's hidden beneath old memories.
There's not really anything of importance.
This is all just dredged up bull****.
If you want I'll sing you to sleep,
But I'll sing it in a language you have yet to understand:
Love.
Opened eyes see better anyway:
And now it's all becoming real again. I was passing glances at the past. I didn't see anything new, but reveled in the old. I kissed you again in those memories. They haunt me. I must have breathed you in too deep. Did you know that I can love you in Spanish, too? Te amo.
I'm starting to lose sight of the meaning of these words. Too many prepositions and conjunctions. Too many things I forgot I knew.
I wish I could forget I knew you:
But I drag your number through my phone twice a day. It makes me feel creepy, but you make me feel whole. I think I'd be better off with you if I used semicolons and made semi-smart remarks.
So here it goes:
I'm dragging this heavy load through fields of broken dignity, clutching the melodies of songs we sang in Georgia (or about Georgia). Your omnipresent image plagues the few dark spaces of my brain; you're no longer welcome here, or anywhere.
How's this for goodbye:
Goodbye?
I think it's better said, "Come home." I use that line too much.
You're already tired of me and so am I. I'm just tired of our bull****. Hell, I'm tired of loving you. Let me let go. Disappear.
How's this for goodbye:
Hello.
I wish this were the movies.
I could have you from that word.
God knows that's what I wish.
I'm gonna leave your memory behind because it feels like dirty quarters and broken glass. I'm scared of getting dirt inside my cuts. You're already a bad enough infection; it's no secret that you spread.
I'll cut you out completely, dirty whore.
No comments:
Post a Comment