It's as if you have been stained
You aren't missing it
You're just constantly being reminded
When a single touch sends you into another's bed
But you never wanted to be in either

And I'm really an hour ahead and you're in a state of denial
Your words laced with the remains of sober thoughts
But it's the stench of the truth that pulls through
Reminding
But leaving me lost in translation
Like those misplaced love songs
And stolen letters
Never reaching their intended place of acceptance
A broken limb being held together with string but what you really need is a shotgun
Only it's one with too few bullets
Those bullets that hurt but never ****

No I'm no poet
Or a writer
Or a heartless author
Merely some fingers that tremble to create a picture of a waiter
But not in paints
Nor crayons
Nor colours
Nor stitches
Just merely fragments of sentences and thoughts plucked out of not my but your brain
I study you
Read you
Breathe you
Want you
Combining sounds in hopes that it will do your figure justice
Your heart
Your mind
Your soul
Cause mine was lost the moment I met yours

seriousness for strangers who are unlike us
but the question is wouldn't you rather it that way
the claims of a drink that entitles others to be weary
weary of us
here we go
a story sprinkled in acid and cinnamon
not just sugar alone
cause sugar melts into something sickeningly sweet
whereas us together is a taste we have yet to discover

For the purpose of waiting on a argument left for someone else's yesterday do you understand the depth of your own sweat
Almost like a beam of sugar hoping to sink you under
Cause you're not the only one that's wasted away

your tiny desk with subtle words
engraved into the stone
wishing on an invitation
to a death row