All the other songs are
Much duller and the
Little rainbows the windows
Paint on the staircase
Are fading maybe
There are cotton balls
between my ears maybe
It's the acetone messing
With my brain he knows
That I need him more
Than I need music
He knows I like to
Wipe clean with each
New day, new color,
And the mirror in my
Bedroom reminds me
That I haven't cried in a
Whole year not really
Not the good kind that
Makes you feel like
The slate is clearing
Itself like the future
Is ready to be
Seized not in a whole
Year.
It's all fading
But you keep me
Breathing you keep me
Painting, painting
So I'll fill in the lines
A different color a day
Embrace the change
And forget that nothing
Nothing has really
Changed not in a
Long time I'll forget
That change is not a
Word in my mother's
Vocabulary is not
A choice I've ever
Had the chance to
Make is not a concept
I'm familiar with at
All except in the context
That nothing ever does
Nothing ever
does.
YOU ARE READING
Today, Love: An Anthology of Self
Poetryit's easier to define certain mysteries by what they are not
