You'll say things when I'm not ready to hear the sort, and slight smile creeping slow.
Keep it in your fist in your pocket, I ain't ready, no no no.
Maybe when I'm 26. Maybe when you're old enough to understand that all the shit
is pushing us to want to forget
more than anything.
Aww, but you won't let me. I'll beg you to stop on nights I'm too
drunk on wine and too high on drugs, but you wouldn't dare
keep that mouth shut
Like when you ask for something with only your eyes and my knees
collapse my legs collapse my whole body goes down hard
and I will give you anything and then you
will leave me
with trembling hands and darting looks around the room
like following a bat in a hot summer bedroom.
Stop.
You're too much, too golden, too sour, too rough, too much, baby.
Too much.
But I take it all and take it in and hold my breath for fucking days.






Relation 5th among more and ones before.
You walk in slowly, arms pushed back further than i've ever seen
like a leering vulture, only gentle and simple.
Without the freedom of laughter and presupposed approval.
And yet with those lines cut out in front of you,
you smile like a child
when we all give you a pat on the back.
Been having premonitions of you in the backyard with a blanket
asking me to sit down next to you and
pull out grass
and put it over your bare chest and stomach and I marvel
at how lovely skin can be.
We're only teenagers now and When my Hand moves down past the
lines you and I have drawn during quieter days
you pull me on top of you and then there's nothing
no light no moon no dark no ground no blanket.
I don't want this to be the last time we are only young.
But you go, and then I go, and then we go somewhere else.