His midnight voice
melts the tension...

If language were a code for war
we'd be verdicts of an indigo sky...

Don't you want to go back to those sunlit days
where we would stretch our hands and catch golden...

My right hand, a statue
inches above the coffee mug...

Instead of uttering a phrase
that promises better time...

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The one who I clung to...

I don't know how to handle thinking back.
Was I only created for living once in the past...

I wish you'd held on for me,
and waited out my tide...

Do you think that I could forget you?
That I could murder all the moments...

I play "Gymnopédie No. 1" to a home
busy with ghosts and painted apathy...

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When I steal glances at him...

Everyone spits out your name or tries
to impress with animated metaphors...