The Way We Get By

My bed smells of two different men.
And I'm still waking up alone.

I wonder how you would react,
if you knew those marks were from him,
Or if you would have a reaction at all.

I wonder how you would feel, if you knew in the morning
of my intentions of the night,
If you would have stayed beside me.

My bed is a sea of beauty marks and lips and hips.
And I've forgotten who they belong to.

I shouldn't spend the night.

I want to kiss you in a parking lot,
claim you as mine in the harsh morning light.

Messy hair tells the truth behind drawn curtains,
stained lips and tired hips paired with shinning eyes.

Marks left on porcelain skin,
traces of fingertips and teeth.

I am not yours, nor his.
And you are not mine, we are not.

But you've seen the girl with the seashells,
And we're just bones, and flesh, and empty shells.

Looking for passion to fill the void,
looking for the ocean.

Can you love someone completely? And yes, by someone, I mean me.

Tonight, it feels like this city has a secret club,
and everyone is apart of it.
(even my sleeping roommates)

There are no cars,
empty streets, empty sidewalks.
(even the streetlights flicker)

This secret club is full of dead members,
are these your bones, your flesh.
(even your bed cries out)

I want to spy on your life.
I want to be a beauty mark in a sea of bedsheets
(even if a heart's history forgets)

Waking up in last night's mascara.

I looked at his hands,
and compared them with yours.

Long, slender,
fingers plucking strings.

Strong, calloused,
fingers earn a living.

Am I cheating you,
sitting on this bed next to him

His hands are within my reach,
lips I could claim.

Am I cheating him,
thinking of you when you are not mine

Charming, confident men,
your hands create.

Still, quiet girl.
my hands do nothing.

I spend every night thinking about your hands.

You have that charm, that personality, that smile, and that look. Everyone is drawn to you. Every girl thinks you're a cute boy; every guy thinks you're a good dude.

And I like you more than I'd like to because I don't want to be just like everyone else to you.
And I need to get to know the man behind those eyes.

You're a charming man,
but one of the most quietly intimidating ones I know.

And I can't remember if I ever was as amazing as you.
I'm feeling out of my league.

You'll never touch her again, so get what you can.

We can only spend so much time dancing in ambiguity
before someone trips over their own feet.

I hope I'm something in your whirlwind universe of stars and runaway lanes and freedom's own limitations.
I hope you think of me, or at the very least, make out my face in the crowd.
I suppose I should think it's a tragedy if you don't.

But I'm just an ear,
of what was said to
her or she
or he.

Perceptions of Imperfections

He runs his fingertips over her body,
her porcelain scars.
"This one is a story,
and this one is a television program."

I've got a secret.