I keep it realer than most, I know ya feelin’ it.
Everything that keeps me together is falling apart.
I’ve got this thing that I consider my only art.
There is no love between him and I.
Only words he weakens me with and uses to his advantage to get what he wants.
Don’t leave the scent of your cologne in my bed anymore..It’sYou’re getting harder and harder to wash out.
I want a Sunday kind of love.
I’ve thought about it.
the stoop kid’s afraid to leave the stoop.
You think of the men who have loved you. Kissed you outside of the crêperie, moaned your name into stagnant air, made you breakfast in bed.
More specifically, you think of the tandem bicycle, the love poem, the dark. You think of singing on the phone at 2 AM; drunkenly, sloppily - warmly - you had been laughing, hadn’t you?
You think of his running shoes, the way they pounding against the earth; you think of the ocean - the night you had both floated naked - his lips against your spine, his name crawling from your tongue.
You think of the yelling. You think of the time he had slapped you when you accidentally let the dog loose. You think about the torn up love letters, the garbage disposal, the dark. You think about how you are embarrassed each time you accidentally flinch.
You think of being satisfied - why are you never satisfied?
You think of the men who have loved you. Kissed you outside of the crêperie, moaned your name into stagnant air, made you breakfast in bed.
None have ever loved you right.
The problem with saying that I still love you
is that I don’t know who you are anymore.
Surely not the same one who always felt me thinking of you.
‘Cause when it was raining, somehow you usually knew.
So I’m sitting by the window with my eyes closed tightly,
wishing my hopes make it to you.
Blessings I don’t need, but live like I don’t need you.
