Sweet Sunday Mornings

Cut the tassles
and the hearstrings
so I can bleed significance
on my own.

You were always rather jealous.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like
to drip and slip
through your memories
and fade into a timeless
halt.

You can't let me go.

But I'm an angel, darling,
and I taste of dreams and innocence.
Watch the bastards scream
'cause they don't have
nothing.
At least not on me.

You always were so charming.

Remember to feel it,
and remember to breathe
because the sand is shifting into boxes;
boxes are to prisons as we are to
inescapable realities.

You were never real to me.

*Not to who you think it's to*