(you're worth it, i don't mind, good morning)
The lies are relative, what matters is that I believe them.
I become liquid in all of the places we touch:
my soul buries itself in my body,
afraid to be taken, innocent in its intentions.
You are so pretty when I love you,
because, despite, therefore; and the
rooted sacred shivering soul trembles
in the glow of a million perhaps's
I wish I could see
the whole entire earth with you
recklessly run the towns red; bathe in the soft
intensity of love in your sanity. There's a light
yellow that's burning its way in through your curtains.
To love is noble. I wish I could sleep under your pillows
when the mornings are easy and the nights are
secret and wanting is you is not
a decision I'll have to make.
when the mornings are easy and the nights are
secret and wanting is you is not
a decision I'll have to make.
there are seven thousand one hundred reasons to stay in bed
I was made to ruin you in the best ways:
From the tip of your tongue like poison
crawling down your neck, veins traced, pulses followed
And I will remember every fiber of you pure,
every thread without me.
every thread without me.
Ice cubes and rough hands and forgetting where she keeps
your good shirts and tangled hair and flapjacks and the place you are
when it's raining. Feather-light kisses on raggedness and youth in
the creases of sheets. Counting scars and all the inconsistencies in
her colors; finger-painting your dreams into dinner napkins;
summer and rust reds and dilapidated guitars and leather-stripped
car seats and how she promised she'd never leave. Glass coffee tables
in the back of pick-up trucks, the half heart attack of nearly
missing the breaks in a basement parking lot, listening to nothing
and visualizing a future, and wonderment at the honesty
with which she waits for you
and the way you will always love her
(even in her absence)
there are about five reasons get up in the morning
& you are all fifty
the creases of sheets. Counting scars and all the inconsistencies in
her colors; finger-painting your dreams into dinner napkins;
summer and rust reds and dilapidated guitars and leather-stripped
car seats and how she promised she'd never leave. Glass coffee tables
in the back of pick-up trucks, the half heart attack of nearly
missing the breaks in a basement parking lot, listening to nothing
and visualizing a future, and wonderment at the honesty
with which she waits for you
and the way you will always love her
(even in her absence)
there are about five reasons get up in the morning
& you are all fifty
