in an old wicker chair i read from my old journal, posts of how i missed your touch. i sat there in my summer time cut off jean shorts, your t shirt and a dirty pair of sandals.

dont think that i forgot you or
that my heart doesnt remember your cold breath.
dont think my mind falls short to remember your pain.
your the devils angel to me now.

yours.

it was your heart on the line.
and now
i found out your wrists were made of steel.

i hung my thoughts by string from my ceiling and watched them swing back and forth

old cigarettes and southern bells.
he was the kind of guy thatd leave her bleeding.

loosing

she had to come down,
but from now on it was her against herself.
she had every intention of loosing.

for good this time

she knew your eyes were lying,
they were glazed over as you stared at your feet.

she watched his hand shake while he touched her chin.
the only thing they had in common now was the ground
they were standing on.
her mind had been made up and she
was leaving,
for good.