i've never had time for cold hands.
when you left, all i could feel was the inner sides of my palms
burning, i swore i saw every “i love you” go up in flames along
with your letters and every promise
immediately torched into something i didn’t want to believe was real,
this happens too often to be sad anymore. the only
thing i'm thinking is that i'm not, sleepwalking is only a habit,
i tell my friends to smash their rear view mirrors, tell me
why then do i keep a collection of them in my bedroom, tell me
why i visit last summer every night
tell me why i wake up in the morning only to feel like swallowing glass is an evening routine
if you wanted to know why i don’t know much besides leaving without a sound, this is it, right here, alcohol tastes better than goodbyes.  
we never bet on it.
love was only phantasmagoria, why would you shake cold
hands on such a silly dream? torches were meant to be lit and
maybe we just weren’t meant to love,
maybe the only result is bruised hearts, broken bells, and burnt palms