If I wrote you a love song— it would sound like withdrawal,
like verses hooked to my veins; being addicted to every chord.
It's a drug song, played on repeat in my bloodstream. Chasing
another scent of you— my nose runs on a good blow, a wind
that burns instead of breathes, a rush that leaves me hollow,
sniffling for the next high of love.
My mood takes a beating— top thoughts pulled back, receding,
like a hairline of faith thinning each year. And my lips— they
compete with silence, fighting not to confess, fighting not to hear
my own voice, a sound I’ve grown to despise.
Here I am— being the danger to myself, the trigger and the bullet,
the sinner and the prayer, knowing a piece of heaven might mean
rising above the very sins I cradle like lullabies at night. While on
earth wasting every dollar, every dream, to buy the same broken
key— a kilo, a lock, a note in the wrong song. Passively addicted
to the weight of this world, still rehearsing the refrain: singing
that Love song. I can’t stop humming.
And if I ever quit, it won’t be so clean and cut— there will be
a few relapses written in a rhyme, another verse I didn’t mean.
But maybe that’s the point— not every chorus resolves, not every
melody heals. Maybe some songs just linger in the air, unfinished,
a half-prayer, a half-confession— a tune I’ll keep humming long
after the music fades.
And maybe one day, that hum will sound like hope.
