This long distance is killing me most
because I can't see the look
on your face when we speak.
I want myself branded into your mind,
leaving specks of me
scattered across your eyelids when you close them--
like you've been staring at the sun for too long.
But instead I'm like an old book;
the pages starting to tear and your patience starting to wear.
The binding's falling apart at the seams.
You start to think it as burden and rip it to shreds,
burn it to dust.
When you close your eyes,
do you see the firelight dancing on your eyelids?
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
This long distance is killing me most
because I can't see the look
on your face when we speak.
I want myself branded into your mind,
leaving specks of me
scattered across your eyelids when you close them--
like you've been staring at the sun for too long.
But instead I'm like an old book;
the pages starting to tear and your patience starting to wear.
The binding's falling apart at the seams.
You start to think it as burden and rip it to shreds,
burn it to dust.
When you close your eyes,
do you see the firelight dancing on your eyelids?
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