Your kisses still burn inside me.
A candleflame with the heat of a thousand suns.
At night, your voice echoes through my hollow chest.
Bouncing from throat to ear to fingertips before settling again.
The memory of tomorrow sobs itself back into being.
Words considered true are now only considered.
Nakedness now only exposes where it once revealed.
There is oxygen
and nitrogen
and the smell of cut grass,
but there is no air.
Wondering has evolved from why to how.
I mourn something that still exists.
Because it still exists.
Helpless, raw and wanting but existing nonetheless;
In shadows that grow like the cold spot on the floor.
Love, in spite of you.
In spite of me.
In spite of us.
Left to be on the other side of forever.
These words are not me.
They are something altogether better.
They will be caressed by your hands.
They will be read by your lips.
And then be put to rest.
I am the shell of me.
Wishing I were those words, that I could be hidden away.
Put into your box to sleep.
The truth of tomorrow beckons me and I fear to answer.
I refuse to answer.
My days are spent in between yesterday and tomorrow.
In a place where your taste still lingers like the smell on my pillow.
Holding words that are not you and remembering...when they were.
__________________
Everyone defines everyone else, well I don't give a fuck. Label me whatever the hell you want. I just want to be left alone. So I can wear my thrift shop clothes and not have mohawked hair or the most perfect spikes. So I can like whatever band I like. I know who I am, don't label me cause you can't tell me who to be. And if you don't think I'm "punk", I don't give a fuck. I won't be a clone.
- Jimmy Little, lead singer of The Fuck Ups
"It takes an idiot to do cool things, thats why they're cool"
Linear Mode
