i want to be your hand

there is something like an ocean inside of me,

I can feel every rip and wave,  

sinking through my own veins, 

my hands are shaking boats along water

i just wish you could keep floating

i'm so tired

beneath my lungs

all my nightmares escaped my head

bar the door, please don't let them in

you were never supposed to leave

now my head's splitting at the seams

and I don't know if I can

to here and back

in the days in which we slept,

I crawled my way into something impossible.

I just don't know how to get out.

you're trash, you're in trash

rain or shine, all the jets are gonna fall today

there's no time, we're all gonna fall today

with loving smiles

and their mouths are stretched so wide

they can't even take a breath

you fell in love with the sunshine

and you took a walk with a boy

you spent half a year on the verge of tears

just because nothing ever feels like it did before

if only one were a red indian

always prepared,
launched into the air on one's galloping horse,
a brief tremor over the trembling ground,


till one let go one's spurs for there were no spurs,
and threw away one's reins, for there were no reins,

and could barely make out the land in front of one opening out as smoothly mown heathland,

with horse's head and horse's neck already nowhere to be seen.

all the calcified arhythmitists were doing the math

i'm not good at this

you're fucking me up

There is no easy way to say this,

but could coming back ever be so simple?

I've stared at myself for what seems like a life time

of my moments; trying to piece the bits together:

his eyes, and my old door.

I left for a while. I'll have to explain later.

Tybalt might not come back.