cheap whiskey and cheap sheets are made for the sad business of liars and thieves

you can't grow a beard
you can't grow a sorry

I can't grow a spine
I can't grow sincerity

because I stop hurting if you keep hitting hard enough

and

you hit
you hit hard
you hit constant

and we love each other

but

but we don't want to be together
but we don't want to be apart

                                      so now I am sitting with cheap whiskey and sheets

and you are off

and only God knows where

Feet on a sunlit dashboard with the wind ruffling my hair.

We're sleeping under the starlit sky, waking up with the birds at dawn
Sleepy eyes struggle, illuminated by the glow of sunrise as long brown lashes press against a translucent cheek.

I made you breakfast.
I kissed your neck when you weren't looking.

You slid your hand into mine and then we ran away
on the dollars of our fathers and the kindness of employers.

Where are you now and when will you come?
Who are you and why are you seemingly far away?

new order
dancing alone
blacklights blazing

using my mother
as an excuse
for getting drunk

while thirsty for love
and holding an umbrella
while all around it's raining

stunningly bored and powerfully dumb

I bide I bide I bide my time for success
I lazily rove eyes over ****** photographs
and crappier stills from my memory

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vivid photographs may line my walls
but day-to-day it does not feel vivid, not at all

cradle your head in your hands
as every barbed whisper in your head
echoes until it's thunder wreaks havoc

you are a jarring lance against the wall
while the buzzing breath of the world rolls

you are not here
you were never here

you can only pray,
only only only
wish you weren't

but you cannot just will yourself to die
with the fierce passivity that comes with nirvana

because you know that
while you can still convince yourself
there's something better in the future
barely
but barely is something still

even though presently

you are on a slab and you were Romeo
who believed he died alone, on the top

you are on a table dissected
metaphorically flayed and made raw

by the seeming death of passion, a lack of someone in your bed tonight,
and the slipped hand that pulled off your skin and made the feelings of the feelings that wound.

He isn't going to come, isn't he?

He's drunk, with his friends.
Nonplussed about a girl who said she cared.
Said she was sad and who asked him to come.

He told me
He told me he was depressed. He asked to come in the first place.

He said he would.

I told him.
I told him I couldn't say yes or no to him seeing me, but I'd say yes if he came.
If he knocked on my door.

I don't need a knight, but I require someone with a heart. I thought that wasn't too much.

I told him later I was scared he wouldn't come.
It's been two hours. I don't think he's coming.

I'm so stupid.
I'm so stupid.
I'm so stupid.
I'm so stupid.

I thought he was coming.