We've been drifting melancholy. Spinning stories, lying in fields asking the stars to teach us. Learning to think and feel and see. Talking in wound up tones of wit and spite, the conversation runs in courses of love and hate. We speak in quotes and inside jokes; say it louder. Eye contact, heart work, these are the makings of break downs and worn outs. Frayed synapses, split lips, the mind plays cruel tricks. Face value, punch in the face, saving face; on the face of this earth no one else is on our level. Half hearted attempts to participate in relationships. Arms length is a fine place to observe from. I will hold you there until it's over and your deceit is dead. When you don't flinch at cold hands on cold skin, dilated pupils and wrists without a beat to them. We are plagued with destruction and indifference. The dead make good company, we have nothing to lose.
It's too late to live.
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