We're inevitably drawn towards the impossible and the insane; the ones that drive us crazy, the ones that make us fall in love with every rejection and ignorance. The louder their minds, the silent your thoughts. Your cigarette burns in the dead of night trying to find words, that you hope will make them stay. It's not what they are when you are around them, but what they hide when you are not; the way the roots are protected and the branches out in the open. They give you back your feelings the innocence and you wish you could just write them back to life. They are your favorite inspiration, but for a second do not imagine that could be a complement. You like to play with the demons in their head and suddenly they become yours. You enjoy their piece of insanity when you question yourself if this is what they said romance would be.
Sunday, January 26
Sunday, January 19
You said I look the best in red, like battlegrounds from books of history, pressed against my hips like sadness in the sea, before a storm, that keeps calling out my name. I tell you I am a horror movie with a script that you could sing as a lullaby. I'll wrap you in words soft as smoke from chimneys and love as fierce as a cyclone. My dreams are made of melancholy & cold December nights and my passion burning bright as the winter morning sun. I'm closer than the objects in your rear view mirror and farther than the nearest constellation. The gentle breeze that brings me to sing and sway also takes me away as a tornado never meant to stay. There is war in my mind that can bring devastation and life all at once. I long to wander in the labyrinth of your eyes and explore those dark places inside of you where the things you do not say go to sleep. I want to write something about the way your words turn into a place I wish I had known.
It's always after midnight and everything is waiting to die. How strange is the language between us, so familiar, but without saying a word.