This a weekend shirt, that some people wear you
down on a weekend shift. I met a nice girl at a party,
where it was a plus one, yet the body was a plus two.
If she fell in love with my sharp mind, I'd plead to her,
"I hope it never cuts you"

But here's a plot twist; when you share your heart
with someone so heartless, You pray that they would
love you regardless. But here's how the continuation of
that story goes:

A young boy activity, activities of extra curriculum,
used of messing around with girls. Open conversations,
with closed results. Still needing them all. Energies so little,
but loads of choices we can make to be safe. Riding the front
tooth for a bite of love, and kissing in perfect waves.

I’ve got nickels, quarters and dimes, of all the money on
girls overspent. So maybe there’s a cost to the regrets.
Of the lack of sense I’ve got left. Owed the change, to the
better things of my life cares. Or those truths after dares.

Resemble this, when you remember this.
When you’re still young calling any potential a Miss.
“I miss you texts,“ under the blankets, with the lights glaring
in my eyes. I send happy emojis, as if that’s how I really smile.
Don’t forget to say good morning, or at least say hi after your
tender goodbye. Oh wait! Never mind.

I’ll just type the message with my data off. Turn it on in
the morning, and the message is sent to look like the sweetest
actions of sweet words.

“Hello,“ we open ourselves to casual talk.
Cheering each other up for the day, and the struggles we’ll
face at work. “Of course I’ll be thinking about you till the last,"
I’ll say as a start into sexting for some breakfast lust.

Put on that mask, not for my mouth or nose,
but for the face scars. Untrimmed beard, awkward growing hairs,
and a comb making sparks through the sounds of knots.
Put on my favourite red long socks, and pull out my jewellery
out of their treasure box.

I get a quick text from her, and read the message as a notification.
Thinking about the best reply to use while putting on my shoes,
and promising to make it to her place, if she shares the right location. Lotion on my face, heavy cologne on my neck.

Spray, Spray!

Vaseline on my morning dry lips, lick it into place
so petroleum stays in it’s grips. Spending the Friday morning skipping through work. The final whistle blows, thinking I can
get my whistle blown. And here I am again; off into the world.

In town on my phone long texting this girl. Oh how will
this story go? Who really knows, but just it’s end. As her and I pretend to still be friends.

A word to hide behind our guilt. Making myself out as
the *** guru in quick words, but that’s not how I was built.

So as I got close to the deed’s door, I just run off.
I couldn’t play the song to the dance of chance,
without the right chords. So in the end, I just found myself
better off staying the weekend at home. Peacefully alone.

I'm that weekend shirt. And feeling like a piece of shirt.