The sound of my own typing is terrifying.

Waiting is like holding glass shards and walking down thousands of stairs, but you need to hurry. You have to hurry or the stairs will disintegrate behind you. They already are, and you have to reach the bottom. Even though the door down there is probably locked, and you’ll be left hanging on a landing.

As you run your pulse pushes against the shards, and with its force, it makes them ruby tinted.

Why are you carrying shards? I really don’t know. Perhaps you just needed something to hold onto, and even though this was broken, it was better than nothing at all.

Important

I lied to you about who I am.

That was before I knew you were perfect.

I didn’t know you would matter,

so I made myself better than I am.

I told you all sorts of glory,

and hoped you didn’t know the glimmer was fake.

I found out that you are perfect,

and the only thing I’ve sang to you so far,

is hypocrisy. 

Sick with Sentiment

While walking down weary wet pavement

the city smells like city.

I’m making footprints in clichés

and tracking them with me onto your

newly polished

body.

And I’ll make myself sick with sentiment

while you just…

just…

don’t know.

Dizzy

I am scrambled eggs for you,

topsy-turvy, light-headed and then jump-over-the-moon

for you.

I am cartwheels,

followed by tangy-jolts of lemon zest

in springtime for you.

I am smiles that don’t know they’re too much,

and laughter that won’t know it’s too loud,

and a touch that I wish you’d return.

You are…

For me?

I really don’t know.