caitlin (xcrystavelx) wrote in freedomtospeak,

I need something to hold onto,

For so long
We waited.
I thought,
Beyond a shadow
Of a shadow
Of a doubt,
That there was reason
To believe.

Tonight I find myself.
Soaking cinnamon bark
Into vodka,
Slipping meaning into my drink,
Begging her
To just let go.

She never hears me.
Never did,
Never will.

This is the…
In twenty days
We both will have risen.
(There is something deeper to this,
Though I am missing the meaning.)
Pouring down
That last
She screams,
Believing she is deep.
I would tell her,
And push her back to sleep.
In such delirium
We can believe anything.
There is an opiate hidden among the flowers.
You just have to search.

I would kiss her,
7:18 on Sunday morning.
Creep downstairs,
Never waking the family.
Slip out before they wake.
“Brooklyn Sundays are so crisp,
Before the world wakes,
Sleepy and stumbling home.”
I loved the F-train.
And I cried every time
I boarded it north.

I want to be the one
Whose toes you kiss.
Though I would never have let you,

I am living off a memory.
I am living in a dream.
Or at least,
I am trying to.

Tonight, cinnamon barks
And sugar cubes,
Breaking meaning
From the lips
Of an undeserving lover.
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