Something is drilling between my ribs.
Freedom swings to guilt.
*justify, justify, justify

It's almost Kubrickian,
How you slide across the floor,
Polished,
Drifting just above the crux of reality.
Dichotomy of ordinary,
A prototype of moral vasectomy,
Knee length in liquid
Endlessly,
In all her corners.

it's about learning that love doesn't come with an address
rather, a skeleton you hung in the subconscious element of your closet
i'm learning the grey area that resulted in the clash of our existences is something i don't fundamentally need
three days ago i realized its something i don't want
hey i'm still writing to you as if it were my career and i'm learning that
with you, i never had to taste the metallic tone of closure
i just, left. you didn't know
my last "i love you" would be the last and
instead of writing you novels and sobbing in between
every page, i stomped my feelings into bottles and lately i've been busy imagining the emotion that comes along with splitting a fine wine thats festered in my gut for quite some time
maybe i'll share it with my mirror,
sleeping on the floor is becoming much too frequent as is getting drunk off of emotion, only to
wish you were here