There’s something about lingering hours
of sunlight and cool nights,
of swimsuits and fire.
The days are longer than bearable,
impossible to fill and
impossible to neglect.
Listening to tales of your new life
is messing with the mess
I’ve tidied countless times.
Soiree’s stay later
than I care to be conscious,
but I’ll stay for fear
of being this unaware.

There’s something about being blind
that makes the mistakes
so much more frightening.
Those days are much too far gone,
but even without a memory
they’re so sweet to recall.
I can remember skipping
in the field behind your house,
taking pictures of summer.
You just can’t recall living
by the rules of loving and
the ease of hating them all.

There’s something about fingerprints
dancing to the beats and
lingering like the music.
There are bruises still in existence
from when I was too low
when you were too high.
Internal bleeding really hurts
like never being enough
and never learning to let go.
I stopped trying when there
was nothing left to try for
and I knew you would not try forever.

There’s something about wasting time
that doesn’t mean anything
because there’s nothing else.
Open chords are discerning
in the sense
that something’s always in the way,
and it's somehow never them.
Your eyes look like they could use
a good cry; cracking from the strain
of dismissing your misery.
You’ll never be an artist if you take
no interest in loving hating,
or hate that you do.

I ’ m   t o t a l l y   f i n e   w i t h   i t   i f   y o u   a r e .