Hours speed,
Up on weekends and I,
Think about this while,
The smells of soap and sobriety,
Creep like layers of,
A cake that I've just began eating,
But the minutes feel,
Like a,
Laundromat waiting room,
In purgatory,
In between your messages,
That force my,
Script writing pen,
To be set down,
I never am right,
When I try to write,
What your next line will be,
Your smiles are sometimes,
Hidden beneath a,
Sadness,
That I can only try to coax,
With cheese,
To see it's broken body,
But,
That sadness isnt some broken board,
In an old house,
that needs to be fixed
It's needing the,
Appreciation,
That if it was repaired,
It would loose it's history,
And that awesome broken board,
Doesn't make,
The whole whole house,
It makes it,
Unique,
Unique in the way that,
I wake up in the middle of the night,
Grasping my bed,
For,
That person that has never been there,
But,
Is there every night,
I can appreciate the grabbed sheets,
Because I can appreciate the new year,
Like that amazing house with,
History,
I find new things,
New rooms,
With new broken boards,
And new broken bodies,
Except this year I can remember,
All of it,
And,
I got a new batch of cheese,
Time to get oot of the shower,
And,
Walk through,
That first room.