dexwritesthings

You live like you think someone's always watching, and who knows - maybe they are. Or, maybe, you're just a little bit paranoid, maybe you've got a guilty conscience. Well. Definitely that. Midnight, mid-June, and I was driving with the windows down. I couldn't hear you with the music up loud when I pulled into the drive. We were kids then, Converse and bare feet and you choking out words like the noise of all our thoughts made it hard to breathe, and you, listening to that same sad song over and over again. I'll remember it that way; I choose to. But now it's tomorrow again and we can't take back all the things we'll do today. So make it last or  at least make it count -  every second,  everything you do has to mean more  than the knowledge that it ends and all the ways it can. So we stay desperate, the time slipping away with every song on the

It's just another place to live where the sound of the rain outside makes you feel hopeless and you have to tell yourself that waking up isn't the worst thing that could happen. Every second strains under the weight of not remembering -  the smell of Newports and exhaust in a car on a summer day, how you love and hate the sunrise at exactly the same time, all those empty intersections whispering like ghosts, and the dead who haunt your lists of calls you didn't take. Everything inside you feels misplaced. Someone's always rearranging the layout of your heart until you can't remember how you got those scars. So you're spending your nights digging through those boxes labeled Misery and hoping you'll find something else inside, because the only thing you want is to sell or trade your past mistakes, and for something to be different i n you this time.