I bought a ticket to the world,
but I was too sick to fly when the day finally came,
so, back home I strode,
sleeping in the shadow on my sentimental expectations for us.
I pleaded “Girl, don’t make me wait too long”
longing for you,
lounging in my lace robe,
atop an empty bed,
holding the empty whisky bottles to my icy breast, as if they could bring you back.
All that’s left is yearning,
and it becomes it’s own delightful game,
counting down each morning, to see how long it takes to go insane,
never quite losing the feeling, no matter how much I plead with my stubborn heart.
Every night, I dream of an open top car,
the open road smiling in the reflection of your sunglasses,
never a word spoken,
just the sweet silence of experience and security.
Some mornings, I wake up to nobody but my empty whisky bottles, and bitter regret,
you get so jealous of how close I’ve become with my vices.
You get so violent, my violet girl,
as you throw them to the ground,
as you clutch me with your envious fingers,
as kiss me with your furious, delicious lips.