700

I wish I could travel through time,
or become a ghost in your halls
and find that fine line
where you gave him your all
because i'm standing here
in some lucid kind of dream
finding out what its like
to be the product of deceit
that i've seemingly created
in the midst of incompleteness
Sometimes
i stay up wondering
if you might ever write again
but then i realise theres no point
if i'm not going to be your friend
So i stand closer
to the edge of your bed
and i see him on top of you
hearing everything you said
and the moaning goes on
until the morning, and
my mourning is just
the paint
added to your ceiling
that gave you the strength
to call this over
and i've seen enough movies
to know the redundancy
of time spent
wondering if you're
ever going to be mine.

Was it the music that i never listened too
that you listened with him
that made him seem more attractive to you
was it the fact he's never seen a sin?
i bet he's not just a charade
and the happiness and joy
fills in the absence of pain
ever closer to the inch
Was there ever a moment
when we were skin to skin
that you just stared up
at the walls and slowly
turn to think of him?
I know it seems petty now,
when we're in different crowds
listening to different people
and figuring out just how
the simple pleasures
that we once found so pure
is now only found in the sickness
that makes everyone a whore?
I'm sorry to be typing this
with no feeling to refrain
that i finally have a name
to entitled the farce
that has become my game.