hospes

My music is painfully loud,
'cause I'm trying to drown out your eyes.

Meanwhile, I'm the one who's crying into my philosophy;
what's a little more logic washed away by this, "you & me"?

You've got your hands over my eyes, I can't judge,
and your name's etched too deep, can't forget.
All that time spent convincing myself it can't work,
we don't fit, we don't know- we don't, yet.

I feel like a moron for walking away from you,
shying away from more pain,
when I know I would never stop thinking about you
if I never saw you again.

I acted like a stranger.


Maybe that's what I wanted.

To meet you tomorrow, to know you and love you again,
to go back to darkness and red light and love and no pain.

As I Said

I felt shy for the first time in a long time when I saw you,
just couldn’t get past all the things floating above our heads,
and couldn’t work out where I fit or how I felt or why all
the songs that I’ve been listening to about you now seem void.
Is there a chance that after all that’s happened, you’ve grown up?
Is there a chance that I have too? If so, what does that change?
Do we become suddenly perfect, or no longer fit?
Are these just more questions, unanswerable, to avoid?
I felt shy, as I said, when I saw you, when we talked,
not because, as I have said before, I don’t know how you feel,
but because, with irony immeasurable and predicted,
now that circumstance has caught up…

Repeat Line

"What can we know?"

What can I know?

I suppose that's the best place to start.
And I suppose there is space in this heart
for this question to sit..

but there isn't,
that's just it;

I can try to avoid, for fear of mistake,
but avoiding could put so much more at high stake;

I could lay it all out, put it all on the line,
but I can't untangle which emotions are mine.

This is poor.

I am stuttering.

I know nothing.

Repeat line.

the Innocence of Time

I'm not some secret Pliny;
I'm all out of metaphor.
All I am is still regretting fiercely;
I could've done more.

And if there's one thing I can't
ever absolve myself of,
it's letting him have you, hurt you,
despite all of my love.

You gave me a sword made of glass,
your love was mine, then dust;
too busy tending pride, I made
my loss entirely just.

So here's to you, blamed thoughtless,
and to me, victimized, raw,
to time and fate's innocence,
'cause, see,

I could've done more.