The Book of Love is singing on my stereo tonight so I stop a block from home
There is irony in the warm windows watching me pry my grip off these words
You know, the ones?
Those honest stones in your stomach that ache in technicolor
The last sipped breaths of that Frankenstein future
All you once wanted, written to life in daisy-yellow desperation
The people and the places I have called home are sticky-fingered, sad-faced babes
I whisper them a lullaby I also need to hear:
Living with love is the heartbreak none of us are meant to survive
What if in the end, the most wholehearted people are those whose hearts have been the most wholly given away?
I want to leave this world so shattered that nothing can stop the light streaming in.