you don't really think about it anymore.
Maybe it's true that
maybe you're fine,
that maybe you have a song;
a melody that reminds you of us,
or a pair of underwear that I left behind.
But maybe that's it.
I hear from you once and a while,
But only for that.
So I assume that maybe that's it.
A text
for a word,
or a phrase that triggered a moment we had,
or of something we did.
And I get it.
Like putty,
We mold;
shift,
twist,
stick.
Bend,
Stiffen,
And at the flick
We fold.
But time doesn't stop for any of that.
So yea,
Maybe you have a song,
But now it has a different beat,
A different vibe,
slower, faster...
Now maybe someone else is in the passenger seat.
Tell me that this 'time' shit
will stop this,
that all of this
I learned something,
I grew into something,
I fell into something else
Happens to me shit..
Because every song,
Whatever the beat,
Whatever the vibe,
Wherever the seat,
Is still you,
my love.
My song is still you.
And every track,
lyric,
Sentence,
Phrase,
And every word in the middle of every page,
reminds me of your middle name,
Of your lips on mine,
Of Tongues,
And milkshakes..
Of Taking turns..
And stopping time.
and fuck,
It burns.
But like sweet fire;
Tasteful,
Powerful,
Stoic,
And sure,
It will end.
I just hope it's soon.
