I could write indie songs….
Or I could just talk their lyrics.
You could spend hours on your best hippy image.
We could talk intelligent trash all day and debate about important world issues, then get ****** and forget to put out the recycling.
And we could burn incense all day in a house we’d fill with music that we weren’t even sure we liked.
But at least we’d feel like we were cool.

Or we could spend all our money on ****** rap CD’s and posters that say things like “beer…helping people get laid since blah blah blah”
I would talk about shoes all the time and you would flip the collars of your polo shirts;
all 52 of them.
The bright pink being your favorite of course.
And on the weekends we’d drink until we couldn’t speak, and laugh about all the weekends before when we did the same exact thing.
And we wouldn’t be sure if we were having fun or not.
But at least it'd seem like we were.

Then we’d grow up and realize it never mattered how ******* cool we looked, what cult books we could talk about, or if we ever became the president of a fraternity....or his one night stand.
The bottom line was, no matter where we “fit” or who we tried to be associated with, there were still people that ******. So really, image was never what mattered, and we wasted all of our time and money on being trendy little *****. And we were never happy.
But hey, at least we looked like we were.

You ask me why I love you
as if it were a choice
as if I consciously decided to enter into this
I had never entertained this scenario
I don’t remember it

There was never a yes or no moment
Only unremitting moments of resounding yeses
It was never a questions of now or later
It was always both and indefinitely

You turned left away from me yesterday
And I realized that left is just sometimes better
Left alone
Left untouched
Left not to be drug on the battlefields, destroyed, and left, as a bad memory
But left sealed up as it was, in its greatest moments
So please
Just take your left darling
And eventually we'll both feel right about all of this

You took me again and I am so disgusted with you...
I can't believe the way you looked at my lips as if they were the sweetest thing you'd ever seen.
As if you hadn't had them before at your leisure.
And I couldn't decide if you ought to be smacked or rewarded for parting them so gently.
Yet before a decision could be made, you were already rewarding yourself.

I suppose I let you because your sighs were so honestly painful.
Maybe I let you because I could feel what she did to you in your breath that hit me so hard across my cheek.
Did I feel sorry for you?
Hell no. This wasn't a pity party. Both of us remember quite clearly who walked out.
I know what your capable of but I thought just maybe the ball was in my court?
If it was I certainly dropped it.
Attempted revenge, attempted.
Even if it worked, I surely don't think it would make me feel good.
You felt good though.
And isn't that all you need to know?
So you can build me up and let me go?

****, did I just let that slip? You should probably go home now. And do me a favor, if we ever see each other again...DO NOT let me speak. Thanks.