It turns out, two years ago past Self, he was NOT the one.
But that's okay.
ThenI sit wrapped up in fantasiesThen by Glomper
the ones where you're still here with me.
Everything appears to be
on the path we wanted, but
the sun is always shining;
that's just not how life goes.
And every time we get together
I'm certain that it shows.
You and me then
were perfect then
and every now and again
that we're still in love.
spilloverAnd as the caramel colour hits the shirt you are sighing, a long dry breath that hisses like its been trapped in a tomb for generations; old and tired and desperate to emerge, as you are. Sick of the drunken fumbling, sick of the guilt-ridden talks over coffee as you get chided for things that you already know are mistakes. Craving a half-smoked cigarette, teeming with someone else's bacteria that invades your body and reminds you "hey, you know people". People who are all watching things die. Dreams and fantasies, pets and relationships all sliding down the rails to where trains go to rust, their bodies as fucked up as yours is. That pain travels through phone lines, for the few of us who still talk, and although you want nothing more than to eat sleep and breathe black, your free hand brushes past the third of Cuervo to the Coke instead as you say "stop drinking" to the ill soul on the other end.spillover by Glomper
Breathe in, breathe out. In. Out.
Open the bottle, and watch it foam over. An