at two a.m., i like to listen to one of my playlists and  dance & spin to it
resulting into yet another sleepless night with drunken thoughts
it's inevitable, anyway; this is the best hour to be true with the moon
so i scribble down these wasted words and happen to find myself with the idea of you (again)
and it's terribly upsetting to know that the only thing my lips are capable of caressing is nothing but this glass of red wine

the last thing i knew, it wasn't the playlist that was making me dance like john travolta, or spin like barbie from the nutcracker— it was you

Dishes piled high in disarray
with my fingerprints over everything
there is no denying;
-the kitchen crime scene
-is mine alone,
and yes, I ate all the pies.