127, 128, 129, 130...

Between the sugar and the blood,
we ended between the sheets.
Looking at the way things would be
id say this transcends the usual;
but no one wants to hear songs about life anymore.
No simple lines about raindrops in the morning,
or these graveyard dreams i have in the evenings.
Instead, you want stories of lust; of contractions.
Flushed skin and crevices exposed to thin air and lights.
Everything kept moving, it never stopped.
Nothing ever f**king stops anymore, not here.
So with the drums emptied,
and the glasses shattered,
we rose to the tempo,
never slowed down.
Tallying the embraces like odds of life,
I've never been so confused.
Where are we going with this?
F**k, hold on a second;
Where did we start this?
Who broke that mental barrier,
some line about misnomers
and unexpected connotations?
It doesn't matter if it was you or me,
but when the day ends,
id like to know where to begin again.
I think i could forget like i so easily assumed i would.

Somehow i cant even take my own advice.

Theres farmers in rice fields
twenty thousand miles away,
that pray to some version of a god
for clouds that will never come.
I can see their ripped jeans, and shattered hopes.
Forty days and forty nights of water
dropped from the turbulent sea itself,
and we dove right in to the pools.
I wish i could remember the rhythm; i can feel it in my bones.
but ill never be able
to repeat that noise,
that drive.
Douse me in kerosene
and light a match.
Nothing will touch me tonight,
short of your hand,
and the flames that kiss the sky that lies between.