It has come to my attention
that my heart's not in my chest.
Detention.
In a frozen prison cell, resisting arrest.
She doesn't laugh when I jest.
No more in peace shall I rest.
The best of me
has no more time for the rest of me.
She's all I've got, but what the hell about the reverie
that we used to have?
It's in pieces,
scattered to the wind like half a heartache,
one crying while the other stays silent.
We implode like idle violence,
imposing penalties for crimes of the heart,
but it's not like you'd start to understand;
you've only got a handful of sand--
it shifted from your eyes while you were crying
over a grave that's not deep yet but better be
because our love was infinite.
You can't commit to the ground that which is relevant.
For the hell of it,
can we just say we keep feeling it,
ignore the sandcastle walls that turned to glass
when our sun shone through it?
In short,
I'm done pretending that I think I'm a good man.
Go find a lover who can love you better than I can.
If I could say I'm sorry for the hurt that I've caused,
I'd scream it til you felt it,
but my damned heart is still lost.
 Dean VVinchester · Thu Feb 05, 2015 @ 06:02am · 0 Comments |
