Look at me, inconsistent, fleeting between the sheets, and I could love you if there was less to this, if it was rose petals and softness, forgiveness, but is isn't, its hard edges, its varying distances, dissonance, differences between us, time and space and adjustments. Constant. Its record skips and missed phone calls, late night talks about things I've wanted to forget, accepting omissions, expectations. Blurriness and gravity, a new kind of drunken physics.
I thought I'd be a writer by now, a poet, a magician with letters and punctuation, an older soul, a wiser type of girl. Instead I'm this, wasted spaces, spilled pints after long nights, I give nothing and I get it all back.
Oh, what you must think of me, the thinness I've achieved after being sifted over weeks of ignorance, drained, strained and dissatisfied, please pick up the phone if I call, I may need to talk things over and over. What if it is over? I once would have went down with this ship but that was another lifetime, another person, a stronger captain, it should never have been so hard, it does not have to be so hard. What will become of us, this sinking ship, we never wanted to want this. But you get what you give. Deliver us.