one game that i wont play.
frozen phone lines missing march.
blessed sound asleep.
it's a tragedy,
i feel it is the misery that keeps me coming home and lusting is proof,
that love has never touched these bones.
holding on to what was never real, i am letting go.
beneath a window, bought by your life,
lies a body, wishing to become real.
another game i wont play.
spilling my heart simply in my head when we both know we are back and forth.
love is not a feeling, it is movement.
you move.
but what if i were to move,
would i surprise the purest white, we underline to breath alive.
am i missing love?
i write this to you in the a.m., wasting, still breathing, but dying.
am i missing love?