Wrinkled candy,
Bitter in your own little sense of distaste,
I don't want to talk to you,
not you and your hated memoirs,
let's whisper then,
it's finale isn't done,
not ever aparently.

The leaves which brought us in the fall,
huddled together for the smell of rotting wood,
pine is my favorite,
maple is yours,
lips that stick,
hearts that break,
lust is just a part of the confusion,
I suppose.

Refuse? I refuse too,
it's gone they say,
that twinkling spark in things,
we do,
not there anymore,
aparently.

Oh hell no,
let's sip some coke,
maybe coffee,
in a can,
broke again,
damn.

Sign it already,
you are, you are,
split our memories,
in two equal slices,
this is the finale,
that is not so grand,
as I had first,
imagined,
huddled together,
for the smell of rotting wood.

Jump?
I am, I am,
No?
But this is what you wanted,
Darling.

The ground-like water swallows me,
the next sound I hear is beep,
and the sound of your weep,
behind this mask of air I,
aparently need,
I whisper,
that you are,
more needed to me,
than this oxygen,
that seperates,
our sticky lips.

Love, Sweetie,
Need you Darling.