one game that i wont play. frozen phone lines missing march. blessed sound asleep. it's a tragedy, i feel it is the misery that keeps me coming home and lusting is proof, that love has never touched these bones. holding on to what was never real, i am letting go. beneath a window, bought by your life, lies a body, wishing to become real. another game i wont play. spilling my heart simply in my head when we both know we are back and forth. love is not a feeling, it is movement. you move. but what if i were to move, would i surprise the purest white, we underline to breath alive. am i missing love? i write this to you in the a.m., wasting, still breathing, but dying. am i missing love?
