She sat, uncomfortable, in the shell, in the hell, she refurrs to as skin.
trying to rationalize, stratigise, trying just to beleive in
the things that he says with those eyes,
all the while, through half-hearted smiles, she never realized,
that if it werent a lie, why, would she have to try?
getting old trying to figure, where he went inventing loopholes and triggers,
figure, what makes him tick, work it out like card tricks,
up his slevee, in his mind,
how he thought, she has bought, or would be tought, to buy
that theres nothing hes hiding from her or behind,
said " if you can't like, or revise, what you love, then thats fine;
just dont go wasting, replacing, repasting,
my patience, complaitence, and more inportantly time,"
as if he had devised, improvised, or somehow had forseen,
himself to be, unforgetable, still incerdiable,
while never coming around
and he may not know where it went, where its heading
but my best bet ,is that hes getting ready, because by now,
he has found, that tragic love tales, before getting better,
almost always hit ground
and she wont be calling, says darling, if i didnt i sware, wed never share
what we think, never speak.
and if she is what he desires, i advise he do as he feels, as the fire,
and conspires, to keep, not ware out like his best pair of jeans,
and then leave, for the trashbin to claim
and if she isnt, if i ament, then i have but one simple question
which in that case remains, why am i still eplaining, framing
this painting, to him, to you, anyway
cuz baby i aint no singer, and i dont like to linger,
im just a girl with too little time, and too many damn things
left to say,
You're good.
New sub here.
FreeAdviceForMen 2 years ago
thanks, please make yourself comfortable and do not be a stranger
1Aware1 2 years ago