Only this, only these nights so dark and still are real. They are the only ones that mean anything. All the rest is just noise, useless noise, and I want to bury myself so far into the earth that I never have to listen to another rotten word of it again.
There are things inside me I don't want
to find you. There are parts of me you
can't have.
Maybe if we whisper, drum up another
name for this, if we bleed a little more,
the world will finally make sense.
I don't want to meet you in the middle.
I want us to push each other to extremes,
test the limits, feel along the boundaries
and find where it gives.
You swear you’re already dead, but I hear your pulse talking, love, a mile a minute, a cherry stem, it’s telling me how the night’s going to end up. Chest of weeds, death the real way, romance-less.
I don't want to forget this.
I want to mourn it.
You backed me into a corner, and I had to
make a new world, a world you could
love me in, because this one is too cruel,
too thoughtless and tiring.
We're weak. We bruise too easily. We’re
jagged and cowardly and sick. Somewhere
else, we are better. We know how to love
without all the blood.
We beam out in all directions, and never
once wonder if it's all a lie.
Romance with the dew, who meets my cheek and mistakes me for earth, the dust of empty pews, the almosts and maybes and sometimes cruel cause I can, feeling for a light switch in the dark, the missing and the trying, and the walk back home. It's the dusting off.