I pressed my wrist against your ribcage to feel our pulses in the same place.
There's a safety in knowing some things stay where they should stay.
I should've started practicing this long ago.
Instead I've been pretending that I didn't know that you've got to write down some words to make a book out of a blank page.
You build your towers out of toy blocks, and keep your secrets in a cigar box.
It seems a safe place to keep all the thoughts that you don't want.
And you use the same pen to write down the names of the ones you love and the ones you just keep around.
I bet we'd all look the same if we ever fell into the wrong hands.
I've yet to see a peace that cannot be soured.
And I've yet to be that tree that shades your sleeping hours.
All we all connected, anchored by wanting more?
'Cause I've yet to see the days I've been living for.
I heard a sound like a satellite coming from the mouth of a shining light in the backseat of a van that was meant to take us places.
It said "I'll never be your writer, or your lover, or your fighter because you're always going to need to want what it is that you can't have."
And I've yet to see a peace that cannot be soured.
And I've yet to reach that tree that shades your sleeping hours.
All the time I've spent looking for something that matters more has only kept me from the days I've been living for.
I've said some things I regret and sold off our right to forget. At least I left you intact, teathered, and tied to the days I've been living for.
I pressed my wrist against your ribcage, just to feel it when you pull away.
There's a disconnect that's louder than the things that we don't say.