I wanted to write about how much I loved
the way your fingers move quietly down your guitar
as it gently weeps, but I could only remember the way
those same hands left bruises on my body
and left me sobbing at 2am.
I tried to write with ink how much I missed you,
but I scribe only with spilled blood.
This is what it was, and always will be.
Strum you do, on your guitar so lovingly
and my heart strings too - more reckless with each beat.
Raise the tempo, my heart rate too.
I want to forgive,
and forget the way this music used to move us,
but my love,
I ******* hate you.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
I wanted to write about how much I loved
the way your fingers move quietly down your guitar
as it gently weeps, but I could only remember the way
those same hands left bruises on my body
and left me sobbing at 2am.
I tried to write with ink how much I missed you,
but I scribe only with spilled blood.
This is what it was, and always will be.
Strum you do, on your guitar so lovingly
and my heart strings too - more reckless with each beat.
Raise the tempo, my heart rate too.
I want to forgive,
and forget the way this music used to move us,
but my love,
I ******* hate you.
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