This is a such a dead end song.
It's not going anywhere;
and neither are we.
Not anymore.

Sometimes, I wish that I could have just held you like that forever;
gentle and feather light and toxic
as cigarette smoke.
Just like before.  

But I was searching for so much more
then you could ever give me
in music notes and hot, wandering temptation.
Oh, so much more.

All I really needed was a few good forest fires to
purge my chest of memories of you,
clingy and thick like cobwebs and dust clouds.
Pass the lighter.

I'll miss you I think;
just enough to wonder what it is that's missing
from the hollows of my veins.
Venom perhaps?

My thoughts ricochet across blank pages
and slam into margins
crowding around cloudy blue lines and white spaces.
Do you know why?

Because I want the smoke to sink in deep
where it can't ever be washed away,
just so that I can have that lingering feeling of you inside.
You don't get it.

I wanted to slip away from responsibility and
morality and break myself into little pieces that I could
spread out across the carpet, just so that I could see myself clearly.
All of myself.

You helped me do that already though I guess:
Your anger sharpened and ready to cut deep
into flesh and bone and soul.
And cut it did.

Then again, I had retaliated with my own sorts of
blades, and slashed you with silence and
frigid admonishments and slanders.
You deserved it.

But maybe you didn't.
See, this is why you had me so confused;
you tangled all of my emotions around your wrist and pulled till they were tied in knots, and
Then just let go.

And the backlash and stagger it caused left me with more
then just a mess to clean up; it was devastation and anger and want and
so much hurt all in that little catastrophe
We called romance.  

We left splatter stains of sin like love letters across my walls,
and wounded patches of earth just like our [in]sanity in your backyard.
Hell, you left your mark on every inch of me and you and there and
Just everywhere.

You flipped through emotions like I sometimes flipped through channels,
Pausing longer on the ones you liked, and skipping over the ones that got no reaction
from the people around you.
God, you were sick.

I think you got some sort of perverse satisfaction out of shooting daggers
and twisting them deeper and deeper into infected patches  
that were already swollen and ragged from tear stained sheets
and weather worn lungs.

And I know now just what I want to say to you.
We're not anything at all; nothing but lies and promises and brokenness and want and rage.
We're not love, and no matter what you say, its
Not you anymore.