| There is a chest
|
| Of skin, of drawers,
|
| With pictures of waterspouts
|
| Coming out from the ocean and into the mainland
|
| Where you once lived before
|
| When you were younger before
|
| You learned how to hope, want, or wish.
|
| Your step became unsteady once,
|
| Even more,
|
| Every time you would stand on shrapnel.
|
| (Under your feet.)
|
| There was a growth under your skin,
|
| An addition of pride for your newfound wasteland
|
| But even worse,
|
| The future you see, the future you bring,
|
| The future you are completely okay with.
|
| I could wait up sick, waiting for a response,
|
| I could wait up waiting for anything,
|
| And it’s something that you’re completely okay with.
|
| You’ve been standing outside of my apartment,
|
| With your mouth open wide, and I haven’t heard enough of it.
|
| Tell me, tell me, Miranda,
|
| Where do you see yourself tomorrow?
|
| Do you worry each Wednesday
|
| When the week is almost over,
|
| Where you will sleep
|
| Where you will sleep
|
| Your sanctuary is Missouri in May,
|
| And I still insist on cutting my tongue off.
|
| You’ve been standing outside of my apartment,
|
| With your mouth open wide, and I haven’t heard enough of it.
|
| I will not speak of the crash,
|
| Cause if it is never spoken of,
|
| Then history will never know it happened.
|
| If it is never written about,
|
| Then no one can ever read it.
|
| If it is never talked about,
|
| Then no one can ever hear it.
|
| Do we know the truths of every broken step?
|
| Only if it’s told, forgotten when it’s old,
|
| Undesired and cold
|
| There is no story to be sold.
|
| (We'll say)
|
| We’ll say
|
| We’ll meet up in some hotel room,
|
| Be it fancy or pay by the hour,
|
| And we’ll comfort each other
|
| Like we used to in our time,
|
| You’ll say it’ll be just like the old days
|
| But it won’t be the fucking old days
|
| No it won’t be the fucking old days,
|
| Only now with our broken parts,
|
| Our overused and torn up pieces.
|
| Will it be better than before?
|
| Will it be better than before?
|
| Do we thank our practice with others,
|
| Or will it be tarnished by exact thought?
|
| Will it be better than before?
|
| Will it be better than before? |