Sunday

Affectionately you play with my hair
As you rest your head on my chest
You sit there, laughing, as I take it all in
You cozy me and I do the same
We laugh and you look into my eyes
I haven't seen you like this for awhile.
The smoke flares up and the wind dances, blowing ashes into my face
My eyes twinge and sting as water collects in the corners
You wipe the artificial tears away
At this point you're still holding me close

A letter to Scottie Fitzgerald from her father :

Our love is dead but without limit, 
like the surface of the moon 
or the land between here and the mountains.
Well, it is not these hiding places
that have kept us innocent 
but the way you taught me to just let it all go by.
And so we've learned to be as faithless, 
stand behind bulletproof glass,
exchanging our affections through a drawer. 
And it was always horribly convenient
and happening too fast
You should count your change before you're even out the door
Yes, you should - but please...

Return, return to the person that you were
And I will do the same, 
cause it is too hard to belong to someone who is gone. 
My compass spins. The wilderness remains.

Once too often, I have retreated 
into the depths of my despair.
I built a barricade to block you on the road. 
I was standing there with all of my possessions 
piled higher than a house, 
I felt closer to you than you ever would have known.
So let these tiny acts of charity 
be common ground on which to build 
the monument that will commemorate our times. 
And though, you swear you've found another 
who will surely speed you on your way,
don't let the forest grow over that path you came there by. 
But you will, so...

So hurry up and run to the one that you love. 
And blind him with your kindness.
And he'll make war, old war, on who you were before.
And claim all that has spoiled in your heart.

Now, I tell myself I've mended 
under these patches of blue sky.
There are still a few holes that let in a little rain. 
And it's been crying on my shingles.
My floorboards moan under my feet. 
The refrigerator is whining, so I've got reason to complain. 
But I am not gonna bless you with such compliments,
some degrading psalm of praise, 
like the kind that converted you to me so long ago.
Because the truth is that gossip's as good as gospel in this town,
You can save face but you won't ever save your soul. 
And that's a fact.

So hurry up and run to the one that you love
And tie him up in your likeness,
And he'll become, become the prisoner I was
And know all that has spoiled in your heart
And know all that has spoiled in your heart

So hurry up and run to the one that you love
And blind him with your kindness
And he'll make war, old war, on who you were before
And claim all that has spoiled in your heart
Yeah, he'll claim all that has spoiled in your heart

(So hurry up and run to the one that you love
And blind him with your kindness
And he'll make war, old war, on who you were before
And claim all that has spoiled in your heart
Yeah, he'll claim all that has spoiled...)

Part II

I feel like we still know each other

It’s all a flashback but this time it’s in colour

There’s no need for tears

We still melt against each other just the same

But am I not the same?

You say I am; you contradict yourself

It’s a routine

Swinging back and forth

Falling in and out

Disintegrating laughter

Tight-lipped smiles

We’ll continue to swerve down the wrong lanes

Speed, even in traffic

And make new roadways

It’s a construction zone

We don’t mind

You're doing your best, you're doing your best

While I was brushing my teeth I was thinking

And I kept thinking

And I thought so hard about what to say 

And now it's gone away, and that's what usually happens

Then I get frustrated

I suffer from a perpetually agonized mind, as I swim in my own thoughts,

rather drown in them

It's getting better

It's much worse than it's ever been

No it's not

I remember thinking about how they leave though

How everyone leaves and you get so miserably lonely and you can't function because it just hurts too much to move

And they keep leaving

And you hear yourself running

And your heart is empty

And you keep running

And you hear the floorboards creak under footsteps that never rest

The footsteps turn back into sprints and the creaking doesn't sound so much like creaking anymore, and you realize maybe you never even really stopped running in the first place, and maybe the creaking was a figment of your imagination and then you keep on going and you're running out of breath

(Like you even had any)

And you realize the ground is splintering underneath you as your feet pound the oak

But you realize the oak is your heart

And it always has been 

And the oak in your heart is cold, and old, and cracking, and creaking 

(Again)

Then you forget about all of this for a little while and everything is normal and where are you while this is happening and who were you three years ago and where will you go and when will this stop and why do you even bother sharing when you know regret drips into your mind while you sleep (when you sleep)