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Description
The only time he'll speak to me
Is when he's halfway down a bottle of Beam
Mixing guarana and ethanol
In some last stitch effort
To numb an overactive mind
Into submission.
Our conversations are like opening up an old book
That you've read a hundred times over.
You've memorized all your favorite parts
And can jump to the exact page at any given moment.
This binding is cracked and worn,
The cover falling off,
And a few dozen leaves of paper loose
But that's only a sign that it's been loved.
It's the most beautifully moving tale
I've ever read in my existence.
It's crafted from ashtrays overflowing
With cigarette butts,
Watching movies at 4am
Because he can't sleep,
Passing a notebook back and forth
Writing every other line to a poem,
His t-shirts three sizes too big for me,
Being so small and fragile
Cocooned within his arms
But I know he'd never squeeze me too hard.
He never had to read a book around me-
I'd be as excited as a child on Christmas morning
Telling him every detail to the letter
Like his own personal book on tape.
He was good at listening
And I loved to tell him stories.
Again I am left open
With the rib spreader still in place
Leaving my rapidly beating heart exposed
For you to do with as you please.
I never gave up on you,
I only took a detour
From the straight and narrow path
That leads me to you.
You know Cancers never travel in a rigid line.
They zig zag in unpredictable patterns
Like a wave of the Atlantic
Where we stood so many times before
And I showed you the soft flesh
Underneath my shell and trusted you
Not to eat me alive.
And now, suddenly,
I've become the understudy waiting in the wings.
You've convinced yourself that
Mutual interest in coitus equals soulmate,
Nevermind that she'll never travel across the state
To find you,
Or understand your jokes as much as I do,
Or finish your sentence
Before you've even begun to speak.
She smiles so sweet between needle pricks
And you mistake it from true love.
She'll never be able
To breathe life into a love poem about your eyes
Even if God Himself were to come down
And hand her the dictionary of your soul.
Maybe when those whiskey googles wear off
You'll able to see the track marks up her arms clearly,
Tattooed forever as a sign that things will never change
When someone doesn't give a fuck enough
To break the cycle rather than break your heart.
The man that penned me sonnets
Crafting words from neon sunsets
And muggy afternoon showers
would have never tolerated this petty insolence.
But perhaps that person no longer exists.
It might just be a shell I'm speaking to
Through sim cards and circuit boards and key strokes
Whenever your mood changes.
This summer weather
Reminds me of places and memories
Long passed and forgotten by him.
And some times
I find myself driving down lonesome country roads
Convinced that he is next to me in the passenger seat
Riding in silence, or making wise cracks,
Or chanting along to the lyrics with me.
This connection eats away at me like a malignancy
As the pain he feels floods through my veins;
As the touch of her skin
When she lies next to him in bed
Creeps across my flesh.
The only time he'll call me
Is when she's melted down her hollow promises
And injected herself with the poison.
When she's been gone long enough
For him to start to realize
She's more loyal to a syringe
Than she could ever be to him.
When he knows I am the only one in his world
Who will listen and not judge him.
So, this is my dear John letter,
This is my explanation for how,
After so many years, days, and hours spent,
I am willing to let it all go
For at least a moment of peace.
You may think you've had it rough
But you don't understand what it's like for me
When she coils herself around your neck
And strangles the last breath of honesty
From you larnyx
And all falls silent once again.
Not a sentence or syllable will you speak.
When she pastes brand name labels to your skin
And cuts out everything that makes you
The person that loved me whole-heartedly.
I doubt that you'll ever find regret in your hypocrisy
But it's not worth it anymore to me.

Description
The only time he'll speak to me
Is when he's halfway down a bottle of Beam
Mixing guarana and ethanol
In some last stitch effort
To numb an overactive mind
Into submission.
Our conversations are like opening up an old book
That you've read a hundred times over.
You've memorized all your favorite parts
And can jump to the exact page at any given moment.
This binding is cracked and worn,
The cover falling off,
And a few dozen leaves of paper loose
But that's only a sign that it's been loved.
It's the most beautifully moving tale
I've ever read in my existence.
It's crafted from ashtrays overflowing
With cigarette butts,
Watching movies at 4am
Because he can't sleep,
Passing a notebook back and forth
Writing every other line to a poem,
His t-shirts three sizes too big for me,
Being so small and fragile
Cocooned within his arms
But I know he'd never squeeze me too hard.
He never had to read a book around me-
I'd be as excited as a child on Christmas morning
Telling him every detail to the letter
Like his own personal book on tape.
He was good at listening
And I loved to tell him stories.
Again I am left open
With the rib spreader still in place
Leaving my rapidly beating heart exposed
For you to do with as you please.
I never gave up on you,
I only took a detour
From the straight and narrow path
That leads me to you.
You know Cancers never travel in a rigid line.
They zig zag in unpredictable patterns
Like a wave of the Atlantic
Where we stood so many times before
And I showed you the soft flesh
Underneath my shell and trusted you
Not to eat me alive.
And now, suddenly,
I've become the understudy waiting in the wings.
You've convinced yourself that
Mutual interest in coitus equals soulmate,
Nevermind that she'll never travel across the state
To find you,
Or understand your jokes as much as I do,
Or finish your sentence
Before you've even begun to speak.
She smiles so sweet between needle pricks
And you mistake it from true love.
She'll never be able
To breathe life into a love poem about your eyes
Even if God Himself were to come down
And hand her the dictionary of your soul.
Maybe when those whiskey googles wear off
You'll able to see the track marks up her arms clearly,
Tattooed forever as a sign that things will never change
When someone doesn't give a fuck enough
To break the cycle rather than break your heart.
The man that penned me sonnets
Crafting words from neon sunsets
And muggy afternoon showers
would have never tolerated this petty insolence.
But perhaps that person no longer exists.
It might just be a shell I'm speaking to
Through sim cards and circuit boards and key strokes
Whenever your mood changes.
This summer weather
Reminds me of places and memories
Long passed and forgotten by him.
And some times
I find myself driving down lonesome country roads
Convinced that he is next to me in the passenger seat
Riding in silence, or making wise cracks,
Or chanting along to the lyrics with me.
This connection eats away at me like a malignancy
As the pain he feels floods through my veins;
As the touch of her skin
When she lies next to him in bed
Creeps across my flesh.
The only time he'll call me
Is when she's melted down her hollow promises
And injected herself with the poison.
When she's been gone long enough
For him to start to realize
She's more loyal to a syringe
Than she could ever be to him.
When he knows I am the only one in his world
Who will listen and not judge him.
So, this is my dear John letter,
This is my explanation for how,
After so many years, days, and hours spent,
I am willing to let it all go
For at least a moment of peace.
You may think you've had it rough
But you don't understand what it's like for me
When she coils herself around your neck
And strangles the last breath of honesty
From you larnyx
And all falls silent once again.
Not a sentence or syllable will you speak.
When she pastes brand name labels to your skin
And cuts out everything that makes you
The person that loved me whole-heartedly.
I doubt that you'll ever find regret in your hypocrisy
But it's not worth it anymore to me.