"Tell yourself I love you when I die."
Since then, burning my back on artificial heat has become my November addiction
The snow falling outside has been there for a week; it's getting old
And god, **** the man who invented movie theaters to take away from the magnificent show of the sky every morning and most nights
It will hit soon: the withdrawal of all the adventurous, summery memories our brains do not contain
We climbed a mountain, the literal ******
Seasonal affective disorder to the tee
No, don't drink that tea
Daughters playing in the background of a last kiss of a warm breath before it freezes
How delusional:
Allowing myself to fall asleep with the thought of March and you still underneath my fingernails
I wouldn't dare to crawl out, for it would be pointless to replace dirt with dirt
Where are your associates at?
Your support system is nothing short of the pipes of a flushing toilet in the dead of January
But here I am, supporting you with the twigs the trees call branches this time of year
Under the bed, missing four pairs of slippers
Too late to keep your toes moving
Slowly fewer mountains are climbed
Less smiles are shot anywhere near a window
And you're still breathing as far as I can tell, but the intense headache that forms when you are within a hundred-foot vicinity of myself is purely physical
Take that in
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
"Tell yourself I love you when I die."
Since then, burning my back on artificial heat has become my November addiction
The snow falling outside has been there for a week; it's getting old
And god, **** the man who invented movie theaters to take away from the magnificent show of the sky every morning and most nights
It will hit soon: the withdrawal of all the adventurous, summery memories our brains do not contain
We climbed a mountain, the literal ******
Seasonal affective disorder to the tee
No, don't drink that tea
Daughters playing in the background of a last kiss of a warm breath before it freezes
How delusional:
Allowing myself to fall asleep with the thought of March and you still underneath my fingernails
I wouldn't dare to crawl out, for it would be pointless to replace dirt with dirt
Where are your associates at?
Your support system is nothing short of the pipes of a flushing toilet in the dead of January
But here I am, supporting you with the twigs the trees call branches this time of year
Under the bed, missing four pairs of slippers
Too late to keep your toes moving
Slowly fewer mountains are climbed
Less smiles are shot anywhere near a window
And you're still breathing as far as I can tell, but the intense headache that forms when you are within a hundred-foot vicinity of myself is purely physical
Take that in
we were born in march and died in june
november comes to rise from the dead
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