She knew that if he kissed her now he would leave. For even though the sky hung dark most of the winter in Sweden, it was still late at night and their kisses tasted of drunk. She knew that he would fumble for her clothes and she would let him and he would dry himself off later and leave. Or she wouldn’t let him and he would still leave. So she knew that it all depended on that kiss.
So she kissed him to spare herself of seeing him leave, to feel like she was in control, because at least now she would know what would come next.
So she kissed him goodnight, and I said goodnight knowing that never again would he hear me say good morning.
You keep talking but I see forbidden secrets in your limp
I bleed and beg sorry
And I know that in this world I don’t deserve forgiveness.
Perhaps I seek to dispose of this guilt.
I hate know it alls. Lets make a fucking poem out of that shall we? So I can sound pretentious and people are awestruck and say ”yeah I hate em too!” But all along (we) they’re all hypocrites, thinking they understand: thinking I understand.
Your smells this guitar
Your words his words
3.1415 alive no longer my amour
our number his death.
his number our death.