03-06-2013, 12:08 AM
We're not saying anything.
It's only eleven something,
you're not asleep but you pretend to be
so you don't feel guilty when I touch you.
But I know what's really happening.
I don't need to steal your phone
and read your messages like your
idiot boyfriend.
You got three other guys sending something every three minutes tonight. Dying for a response.
They're desperate and alone, because you made them lose
their girlfriends;
because you wouldn't stop hanging around.
Everyone's so jealous over you.
Now they think you owe them something.
Your boyfriend kept buying that fake American Absinthe shit,
the kind any real man can down in less than fifteen minutes.
When I started buying you the real stuff...
I don't know why it made me call you "stupid" everytime.
It seems everything you order from France makes you feel it's ok
to talk like an asshole.
And now I buy kitchen matches from the grocery store
so I can light three or four of your butts at a time after you're gone,
before the flame gets close enough to my fingers to even care.
I know he's got you working at his Electronic Cigarette kiosk down at the mall tomorrow morning.
A thirty-five year old man running a mall kiosk...
I'd rather be a bum. I am.
Another few months of those things exploding in people's mouths
and he'll be out of business too.
Be here with me one spring morning,
I'll explode anywhere you want.
And you won't even have to work.
I'll just sell all my books that's been piling up in my room
for the last twenty years.
And I'll give you my books,
the ones I wrote about you.
That'll give me an excuse to finally buy them.
I still got that seven hundred dollars too
that I've been saving up from the last few times you ditched me
on your birthday.
It's in that hole in the mattress
from that time you started that fire.
So "wake up",
check every message, respond to every message,
smile a yawning smile, pretend that you don't know;
and disappear somewhere.
Leave me here to smoke your butts
and jerk off for every day I've known you.
Some things I do to you, you can't sleep through.
I guess you weren't in the mood tonight
to play the drunken blackout card:
That's right. You don't drink.
"Only with you, my love...
I trust no one but you."
I spelled 'your', 'you're' three times today. I'm in that kind of mindset. I always spell bad.
It's only eleven something,
you're not asleep but you pretend to be
so you don't feel guilty when I touch you.
But I know what's really happening.
I don't need to steal your phone
and read your messages like your
idiot boyfriend.
You got three other guys sending something every three minutes tonight. Dying for a response.
They're desperate and alone, because you made them lose
their girlfriends;
because you wouldn't stop hanging around.
Everyone's so jealous over you.
Now they think you owe them something.
Your boyfriend kept buying that fake American Absinthe shit,
the kind any real man can down in less than fifteen minutes.
When I started buying you the real stuff...
I don't know why it made me call you "stupid" everytime.
It seems everything you order from France makes you feel it's ok
to talk like an asshole.
And now I buy kitchen matches from the grocery store
so I can light three or four of your butts at a time after you're gone,
before the flame gets close enough to my fingers to even care.
I know he's got you working at his Electronic Cigarette kiosk down at the mall tomorrow morning.
A thirty-five year old man running a mall kiosk...
I'd rather be a bum. I am.
Another few months of those things exploding in people's mouths
and he'll be out of business too.
Be here with me one spring morning,
I'll explode anywhere you want.
And you won't even have to work.
I'll just sell all my books that's been piling up in my room
for the last twenty years.
And I'll give you my books,
the ones I wrote about you.
That'll give me an excuse to finally buy them.
I still got that seven hundred dollars too
that I've been saving up from the last few times you ditched me
on your birthday.
It's in that hole in the mattress
from that time you started that fire.
So "wake up",
check every message, respond to every message,
smile a yawning smile, pretend that you don't know;
and disappear somewhere.
Leave me here to smoke your butts
and jerk off for every day I've known you.
Some things I do to you, you can't sleep through.
I guess you weren't in the mood tonight
to play the drunken blackout card:
That's right. You don't drink.
"Only with you, my love...
I trust no one but you."
I spelled 'your', 'you're' three times today. I'm in that kind of mindset. I always spell bad.
