On better days,
I would remember dragging my finger tips
against the walls
feeling the smooth glossy painted surface of
your skin against my nails.
But it seems like these days,
you are grabbing my hands deep into your walls
pulling me forward until I become them
their solid white flat hardness,
and they become me,
my blue water carbon body,
and that is that,
and melancholy transforms into routine
and routine transforms into pretend
and pretend transforms into joy.
It seems like all the games we play
are like this harsh compromise
and accepting it the way it is,
where walls become water and water becomes walls
where I can find myself slipping away,
solidifying into a block of
cement, covered in white glossy paint.
This is not love.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
On better days,
I would remember dragging my finger tips
against the walls
feeling the smooth glossy painted surface of
your skin against my nails.
But it seems like these days,
you are grabbing my hands deep into your walls
pulling me forward until I become them
their solid white flat hardness,
and they become me,
my blue water carbon body,
and that is that,
and melancholy transforms into routine
and routine transforms into pretend
and pretend transforms into joy.
It seems like all the games we play
are like this harsh compromise
and accepting it the way it is,
where walls become water and water becomes walls
where I can find myself slipping away,
solidifying into a block of
cement, covered in white glossy paint.
This is not love.
