Second Thoughts
The metallic twilight is long since gone,
leaving us with it's taste in our mouths,
and infinite washes of moonlight to turn on and off.
Expression is to cut, remove from the mind,
with sharp stabbing motions,
bleeding blue into existence.
Like a greenhouse to the colourblind,
name and meaning are strangers,
meeting under conveyer-belt streetlights.
And we're like silence, you and I,
with intermittent tales of love,
spoken in psuedo lip-service.
You're gone,
and the memory wishes it's place hadn't been taken.
You're gone,
but the grass still waves goodbye.
