I don't write like I used to
A prophecy of hypocrisy, these un-dotted i's keep watching me.
Teasing me to cross that line (Honestly I want to drop that line)
Hook and sinker, I took and tinkered with every part
But I was never good at art, macaroni hearts peeling off a frigid front
Admittedly too timid to give it up yet so livid I ripped it up
She smelled like a pinch of dust on a crimson cup
Between two cigarettes we didn't mention much
Scripted yet cryptic touch, fingertips miss by an inch from tensing up
I miss this mess amassed but I miss you most.
I miss you most.