we speak through lyrics of songs not written yet and fight in poems that have never been spoken. you’ll sit in the corner of the dark vacancies of my memory and i’ll ask you to watch a home film of the hands, the bruises and the beginnings. there’s a smack and a thud and you will almost be able to smell the whiskey. i’ll shiver and offer you a smoke. theres a soundtrack of silent bids for the finale. at the end i’ll tell you the story of something good, something to distract you from the catharsis i’ll feel. i’ll explain how “i don’t know what i am and i think theres something inside of me that will never leave ill explain it all i promise i will but now i need to sleep for a while” but i don’t think we’ll see each other after that. i like to play this game of cat and mouse where i pour my soul into something innocent and stand by to watch it evaporate; i like to know that nothing ever wins the game and i am not the only one who slips into the fallacy of memory.