Neck bent a little far to the right Impressions of sheets in skin wrapped too tightly around willing wrists Makeshift bandages for cuts that have closed but still bleed. You must be out for coffee Or on a call that couldn't wait But Sunday's are for rain and dreams you can't quite remember And secrets tucked in a leg bent at the knee. I can't tell the difference between lust and love making anymore though I'd like to still believe in the latter. You return and I lose myself in the corner of your eye and I hang myself there on those lines Allowing myself to kiss you there just once for fear of becoming too entangled A sweet suicide that'd be Gasping for air Lost in your laughter