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Echo

May 19, 2013

sixty

I’m drunk and you’re sitting right there.
Like a ghost driven into scratched vinyl.
Screeching violin hanging in six months of air.
Right.
There.

My breath’s gotta be ten times worse than my blood.
Brown and bottom of the barrel.
It’s in my blood, you know?
By God, is it in my blood.
I’m getting bouquets of bittersweet and abandonment.
Dramatic? Quoi, moi? I much prefer passionate.
Screaming under the skin.
Ha ha ha.

So, I try to catch your eye.
My favourite trick in the book.
I’ve read them all.
And you give me that look.
Like, I dunno, settling snow?
No.
“Fucking, just… let it go!”.
That’s what it says.

When I’d steal Heaven from the sky to wrap round you.
Set fire to the Earth just to warm you.
Tear the Moon from it’s moorings to slip on your finger.
You really are pretty ungrateful.
That hateful look that I wear so well.
Doesn’t really go with your eyes.
Bullet holes in a Bible, running with sap.
And I sort of accept it, cause it’s all that I’ve got.
Except, no, fucking… just no, you know what?
I’m a connoisseur of beautiful lies.
It sort of goes with the territory.
But the ones you told weren’t very nice.
You don’t just get to change your mind.
You don’t just get to ignore it.
I wrote you… fucking… poetry!
Jesus…
Bitter and adolescent, well, yeah maybe.
But, still.
I don’t even like poetry.
You know I’m talking about you.
The Joker stole the Batmobile.

I love you, I always will, and I would destroy the world to have you back.

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From → Poetry

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