monksta

He talks like Frank Sinatra on the phone,
slinging lies as he walks away.
You just sit there on the bed,
head down, hands brushing forest fires
away from your eyebrows,
and cry.
This moment seems like its been
reoccuring in your head since the day
snow touched your cheeks.

You're left reading books, with
underlined notes, with underlined hearts,
of lines you placed in his hands
that he crumpled up and threw
into a wastebasket
and all that crooning just
reminds you of his taste
when lips were touching every part
of your skin, and taking every part
of your heart,
you just wanted him to lay inside
so you could feel warm for just once
in your life.

He is a ghost, shadowing your
lungs and stealing your eyes,
when you try to shop down on Rodeo.

You should untie the rope
that holds those books so close to you,
the stories just won't
hold up
over time.