The neighborhood is quiet, all streetlights turned out. There's no one awake, and no reasons to doubt. I can't stand the silence, so come up the stairs. Wear your shoes on the carpet, I don't even care. Just give me your hand, I'll let you take lead. So I can give what you want, and take what I need.
They say misery finds company… But maybe it's best not to find it.
Words slip from your hot tongue effortlessly and quick. Vicious verbs and malignant nouns thrown carelessly, but with steady aim. Striking precisely into a very unforgiving head.
We both looked to each other for the love we weren't giving ourselves.
With you it's always the same. Silence. Distance. Longing. Nonexistence.
There was a stranger in my home, and they hid perfectly. Lurking and snaking through the shadows, amusing themselves with the thrill of going unnoticed. They watched silently. Absorbing and observing the miniscule details, adding to their list of evidential flaws. And they searched intrusively. Prying and peering into the failed bits and miserable pieces of my daily life. There was a stranger in my home, and that stranger was me.
You wallow in self-pity in hopes that someone takes note. You are narcissism at it's finest... Ignorant to reality and stunningly self-engrossed.
I remember those hands... They were works of art. Palms built strong and casually calloused, yet soft in all the right places. And those fingers... Piano fingers. Long, straight, and eloquently narrow. Perfect for strumming strings or meandering atop white keys. Those hands were masterpieces... Meant to be placed upon me.