I am caught up in the silence, your web, those promises, each one wicked. As I lay in silk with you, trembling, bare, cold, but warm from your sweat and the heat in your eyes, I think maybe this one time, I will reach you. Maybe this time you won’t hide. You won’t run. But somebody always leaves, don't they? And what are we left with nothing but empty space.
Jaded, no rest, weary, still you come crawling back, hanging round my door. Again, I am stripped down, floating under silk sheets, the full moon glaring like one massive eye outside my window, only this time, I’m left shivering. There is too much silence here. Where are you? Where?
I need to know.
And, on this evening, a harrowing Sunday, I finally break, “I need to quit,” I whisper, as I stumble and drift in the dark, fishing for all the scattered pieces, the parts that might make me whole.
Jaded, no rest, weary, still you come crawling back, hanging round my door. Again, I am stripped down, floating under silk sheets, the full moon glaring like one massive eye outside my window, only this time, I’m left shivering. There is too much silence here. Where are you? Where?
I need to know.
And, on this evening, a harrowing Sunday, I finally break, “I need to quit,” I whisper, as I stumble and drift in the dark, fishing for all the scattered pieces, the parts that might make me whole.
