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Like Milk.

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It’s the second day of this dreadful month, and somehow I still end up in your bed every other night. The conversations we have always end up in some kind of twisted, bitter fight. And I still spend my hours trying to push away the taste of her kiss from its place on your lips. Well, loving is as loving does, and I’d say we should know, because we both have loved, have lost, and are alone. You still decide to call my phone. But you and I will never learn, from the constant cycle and inextinguishable burns. And although my heart had started to race, well now it slows because this is something old. It’s good to see you smile again, but by the looks of the paint dripping off your cheeks, I’d say it’s worn, and kind of weak. Aren’t I always right? Not worth the fight. I wish I could fake it, a little smile here or there. Or anywhere. Spurting something other than forced lines of enslaved rhyme. My back is breaking with desire. How much more time before I expire?





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