I never trusted that warmth in your tank.
I've always smelled something fishy
About the hot moisture on the glass
And how the water is close to boiling,
Since it's coming from this hell
Where monsters share the night
And leave you waiting til the sun
Rises to scare them to their hideouts.
And I almost caught it red-handed,
'Cause now that warmth is gone
And suddenly you're so cold,
Not the kind of cold
That drips on my palms
When I take you right from the water
To let you play in my hands
And you would find a hole to creep out of
And try to fly
As if this whole world
Is your own ocean.
Now it's the kind of cold
That no longer crawls and squirms
To escape from me,
'Cause you've already found the way out.
And you even left the doors open
As your empty eyes stare at me.
You won't look around now,
Just when you've decided to open your eyes more.
I can no longer see you,
Just when you've decided not to hide in your shell anymore.
But it wasn't that warmth after all.
It was the warmth that wasn't there
When you needed it the most.
And it's such a shame the turtle sticks came too late
And they were no longer enough
To keep you wanting to be home with me.
But they still were no later than my sorry
And bathroom-borne sobs
Which you won't be able to hear anymore,
Or even understand.
And the green in the portrait I made of you,
The pixels of your images,
And your shy face on my desktop,
Can never be as alive as you once were.
But you just can't
Let me place you in this jar
I labeled 'good days,'
Pour over some sand,
And keep you there and wait
Until there finally is a place that we can call ours,
Where our remains won't be called tenants.
Darling, why now?
You will still need a bigger tank,
You will still grow up with me,
You will still marry Shelly,
If ever she makes it.
God, let her make it.
You can't be gone now,
You just can't.
I haven't even finished our song yet.
Will you really leave me here,
Writing songs about valuables I lost,
People I sent away,
And every living that died at my feet?
I guess you will
But I just can't get used to it,
Nor do I want to get used to this;
To have to get up
But not want to wake up
And attend every tragedy
As if I were death's representative.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 4:08 AM UTC
I never trusted that warmth in your tank.
I've always smelled something fishy
About the hot moisture on the glass
And how the water is close to boiling,
Since it's coming from this hell
Where monsters share the night
And leave you waiting til the sun
Rises to scare them to their hideouts.
And I almost caught it red-handed,
'Cause now that warmth is gone
And suddenly you're so cold,
Not the kind of cold
That drips on my palms
When I take you right from the water
To let you play in my hands
And you would find a hole to creep out of
And try to fly
As if this whole world
Is your own ocean.
Now it's the kind of cold
That no longer crawls and squirms
To escape from me,
'Cause you've already found the way out.
And you even left the doors open
As your empty eyes stare at me.
You won't look around now,
Just when you've decided to open your eyes more.
I can no longer see you,
Just when you've decided not to hide in your shell anymore.
But it wasn't that warmth after all.
It was the warmth that wasn't there
When you needed it the most.
And it's such a shame the turtle sticks came too late
And they were no longer enough
To keep you wanting to be home with me.
But they still were no later than my sorry
And bathroom-borne sobs
Which you won't be able to hear anymore,
Or even understand.
And the green in the portrait I made of you,
The pixels of your images,
And your shy face on my desktop,
Can never be as alive as you once were.
But you just can't
Let me place you in this jar
I labeled 'good days,'
Pour over some sand,
And keep you there and wait
Until there finally is a place that we can call ours,
Where our remains won't be called tenants.
Darling, why now?
You will still need a bigger tank,
You will still grow up with me,
You will still marry Shelly,
If ever she makes it.
God, let her make it.
You can't be gone now,
You just can't.
I haven't even finished our song yet.
Will you really leave me here,
Writing songs about valuables I lost,
People I sent away,
And every living that died at my feet?
I guess you will
But I just can't get used to it,
Nor do I want to get used to this;
To have to get up
But not want to wake up
And attend every tragedy
As if I were death's representative.
