Left of the Time

It's about love, and how much I don't trust it.

 

       I don’t think you understand how much I try.

I mean, that vague sense of perpetual guilt hits me like a ton of bricks

But I don’t panic, nor do I complain.

I tolerate it.

 

I can tell you this; I’ll never miss it

 

       Nevertheless,

People are changing like the tide; up, down. Sucking me in.

Pushing me aside.

Drowning me.

Love’s got a vast, balanced flow, like the sea.

 

I hate the water.

 

       Maybe it’s more like a spider’s web.

A rose garden?

No, neither.

It lacks the life and variety of the sea.

It doesn’t stick too well; it’s not a web.

No, it’s not exactly pretty, now is it?

 

I can fake the hour

I can fake the time

I can tell you I’m fine

When it’s actually 9

But I’ll never be subtle in the morning.

Anywhere from 7-10.

AM

 

       Maybe I’m just afraid to love?

Or to believe in love

I like lovin’, not loving.

I like the way your eyes shutter, and drop

As if you’re anxious and trying to cover it up.

You can’t veil lust from me, I fashioned lust

With my bare hands.

 

                    I’d kiss you,

But I’m running short on time.

My time is thrusting and jabbing into my spine

Like a steak, dull at the end, but hard enough to hurt

And the surging pain is just unbearable.

 

I need to lie down.

 

But I’d hate to have to stare at the dullness of my ceiling.

It’s a greenish yellow, light, like key lime.

Not as sweet.

Not as unique.

It brings me down, though it’s higher than I’ll ever be.

I’m sick of lying on my back.

 

       What does this all mean?

I… I…

 

Cut.

Film.

Action.

 

My poor analogies and misconception of love verse reality, take two.