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Fair Wanderer 9:26 p.m. 2005-03-07 Your canvas is this pink and gold sunset and the curve of her fingers in the last rays of daylight. Your perfection is the look in amber eyes and the soothing pressure of your fingers on the trigger. Your escape is a lie and your euphoria is concelling the airwaves. A plastic heart is broken on the table and are we laughing or crying at this exstacy? Fuck your inhibitions and your continuous self discipline. You cannot control life and you cannot stop the way his collar falls. Dearest, you are falling apart in their arms. And I know there is some place i can go where no one knows my name.... Certain phrases birthed through repetition establish a meaning with the cyclical return to a yearning to live you out. Lacking inspiration I remember the feelings I remember holding you and the way it felt wrong and perfect. Diane, you've been so dead lately. Your mouth is smiling and your eyes they're fucking dying. Or its all in my head. Regardless its true that no one ever knows where they stand and it doesn't matter, i miss you. I was six years old once and I was naive once and you all loved me. And I don't miss it a bit. Summer stars will bring you to your knees if you stop to acknowledge this return to beauty. A night without morality and a night without a muse. Fare thee well back & forth |