Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Isolated

Don’t ask me to explain the science of religion again,

I’m pretty, and I’m petty,

pressing my lips against yours until you can no longer speak,

and I’m at peace,

because everything is quiet,

everyone is absent, except for you and me.

You make me dinner,

hours after I fell asleep,

you never quite get it right,

which is fine,

because I find your imperfection endearing.

Waking up and crashing,

crushing on my constant spectre,

and all the lies he tells,

all the pictures he paints,

that I hang inside my head.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s