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daybreak and prosaic synapses
Mar. 22nd, 2011 09:41 pmThe days offerings bleed red while my eyes see only green
It's hotter than hell here
and nothing speaks to me louder than his silence
Once again I am a hunter of the spark
Wondering what it would've been like to iron out the wrinkles of his politically correct and oh-so-conservative heart
But in the early morning hours I can still taste the distance delivered in his kisses,
feel his lazy arm draped over me in an effort to convince himself - an imitation of emotion while no one else was watching (he was surely just testing himself)
it was dead weight, just like my love, every promise anchored in the deep - tied to the weaving threads of his indecision - and it hung over my waist coagulating calendar months and blackmailing my pride
his hearts inertia,
keeps the ensemble wondering.
It's hotter than hell here
and nothing speaks to me louder than his silence
Once again I am a hunter of the spark
Wondering what it would've been like to iron out the wrinkles of his politically correct and oh-so-conservative heart
But in the early morning hours I can still taste the distance delivered in his kisses,
feel his lazy arm draped over me in an effort to convince himself - an imitation of emotion while no one else was watching (he was surely just testing himself)
it was dead weight, just like my love, every promise anchored in the deep - tied to the weaving threads of his indecision - and it hung over my waist coagulating calendar months and blackmailing my pride
his hearts inertia,
keeps the ensemble wondering.
