Maybe tomorrow you (I) could be awkward but not right now and not in this moment.
Not the least bit a fashionable icon, a steady rip de rip as we (you) separate and segregate. Returned to the same moment, drawn back to a really very bad day. You’ve always been opposite, inclusive of melancholy. Find a way to feel real.
Thunder rolls and splits the faceless tongue, cold in exile, heartless and hell-bound. Erased like an unwanted toy from the shelf. I can’t wait to severe this memory. Subjected to our (your) own intimate past. 4AM AND MAKE LOVE TO ME. Not. Going. To. Happen.
Sweetheart this was built for you to be lost in. I can see the mask on your washing line again. As un-captivating to others as the telling of our (your) dreams to others. Honey, put your mask back on; hell is other people.
Look how strange and tender we all are when alone. Is this a mirror? A sense of immanent logic. Details that fall flat. Desiccation can be as much a cause for reverie as throbbing renaissance. Gags hung up one misty hung-over morning, amuse yourself.
Go back, go back but keep moving forward. You must, you are here and these are your things. Rather heartening when surrounded by your things, don’t you think? Redeem a face from those overlooked. A secret and silent request to explore.
Perpetually unknown, 5% pleasure, 95% pain, you shouldn’t be so sentimental really, when everything has the possibility to hurt you. The last time we trusted you, your head was on a pike. When the pain looked good on you.