she whispered to me.
'myths need mystery.'
in the sense that we're senseless.
and it's hard pointing fingers at broken relics.
sometimes. it's a lie.

in her ear. i sang redemtion.
in the form of poetic restitution. or resolution.
depending on what point of view you choose to be your truth.
weave me. it's sincere.


'I stole your dreams-
and made them wishes.
like a birthday candelabra- burning.
we're ashes on a coffee table.
magazines of mistreaded promises.
with god in our eyes.
and everyone is a little broken.'




she's ambience.
and I'm one thousand miles too late.
too much ground to carry when I'm trying to cover.
myself- in the end.

sin.fully. delicious. it's ambiguous.
and I'm indecisive in these indescretions.
cat.a.ton.ic. breathescapes. in a metaphor for hope.
(less) than nothing. it's always better than something.
and if you give it away. it's worthless.
at least. that's what they said to me.
when I counted the stardrops singing tears
to repitition.


and the puzzle pieces don't always fit. when.
you're trying to piece together.
what you've ripped apart.
because destruction is far more beautiful.
than anything we could make.

and myths need mystery, or else they're just lies.
like the piece of the puzzle you kick.
under the couch.

because some things.
are better left in the shadows.

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