This moonlit chill in my chest fills my head with doubts and my breath with fog. All of these broken playgrounds of swing-set hearts... it’s all just... rusted. Everyone’s made of recycled air.
Every girl is a fallen star collection; a pixie, imperfect. Warm hearts and frozen fingers are the order of the evening - every evening - until 5:47 a.m., when heavy lids take the place of weary souls and emotion invincible. The most important moments that govern our lives always seem to take place in our absence. And that itself fuels our fear of slumber.
So much can be lost through gallons of apathy and yet so much can be avoided: White knuckles and crumbling plaster, living quick and dying faster. We’re all just static romances. With fluorescent hums in place of hopes, replacing dreams...colliding perpetually in cathode rays of light, being watched by someone else; Someone far grander than we can conceive.
He must be watching - but laughing -at all this poetic numbness.