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Post by LisaRocksYourWorld, yo on Sept 27, 2003 21:09:56 GMT -5
I'd rather go through life on my own, But you know I would give in, Simply because it makes life a Closed-eyes, downhill ride To have a hand in yours When you're crossing the bridges You're about to burn One last time.
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Post by LisaRocksYourWorld, yo on Oct 4, 2003 23:18:51 GMT -5
Your kiss tasted of mother’s milk and I knew, the realist inside me, that I was not the one to keep you, just to cut your strings.
And we’d grope in the light of the dark or in the confines of blue walls; blue like the blood that babbled through your veins before your poured yourself over me, valentine red.
Your kiss tastes of vermouth and her mouth. Or so I’m assuming, but I’ve been sober of this punch-drunk young love for long (too long) now.
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Post by LisaRocksYourWorld, yo on Oct 12, 2003 16:18:01 GMT -5
No, honey, I don't want to be a part of your life. You watch from two stories up when I'm with him, like you want to be him, forgetting you were him.
With your lips closed, I still hear in a casual tone "I knew her once, Inside and out, Literally and figuratively, Naked and fully clothed, Like no other boy could."
I met your glance with a stare that said "I need you like a drunk needs beer on his breath. I need you like a whore needs a man on her breasts. But I'm taking this warm body beside me, and I'm walking away."
No, honey, I don't want to be a part of your life.
I want to be all of it.
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Post by LisaRocksYourWorld, yo on Oct 23, 2003 19:13:43 GMT -5
You speak in enigmas, Complete and unfinished, as summer sidewalks scorch the feet of children just outside our sinful room, but it’s too cold; it’s just too cold to crawl back into bed with you. And I’ll still lie under you, but I liked your kisses sloppy, and your heart racing, and your hands shaking as you turned from a boy to a man in my arms. I was never good at riddles, and though I’m just a fading mark on your tally sheet, I understand every unspoken word.
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Post by LisaRocksYourWorld, yo on Nov 1, 2003 21:32:07 GMT -5
He’s hanging onto dreams. Masked behind brown ringlets and chocolate eyes, he’s brighter than I’ll ever be with a voice smooth like rock salt.
Sometimes I swear he sees right through me.
And he’ll speak to me these dreams like a patchwork quilt, as he passes the cigarette aside and stays high on life, like it’s some euphoric drug.
There are fireworks inside his mind, but I can’t see past his faded t-shirts.
We sit for hours, staring at ceilings and televisions (never at each other), as I think of what he’s conspiring when he never leaves my side, and if he’s really contented behind imperishable smiles.
Its nights like those, I wonder if love is simply black and white, because he’s the boldest shade of gray.
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