Pillow Talk

I find solace in the dysfunctionality that is you and I. Somehow I find comfort in the chaos and beauty in the way we dance on the fine line avoiding land mines on the line between romanticism and platonic interaction. I keep it coy and you keep it cool but we both keep it known between each other, “hey, I like you”. As I lay here on the edge of the bed as if it were a tight rope and you lay in the center like a king claiming his space, I’v somehow slipped through the crack between possessive and generous into complacent because, well, I missed you. And apparently if giving you my bed is what it takes to get you back at a tangible proximity then damn it, why not. But don’t think I didn’t think to lay on you, or long for your arm to draw me close; to draw me near. But those days are no longer here and now, all I can do is accidentally, but not sorry I did, brush my hand up against your ass as I work to rotate without breaking this circus act of being on the edge of this twin size bed. I’ve been banished in my own house, my own room, my own bed…and I let you. Because even though physically at the moment I’m my own personal Circ de Sole, mentally I seem to be quite okay as we lay here and play with dysfunctionality that is you and I. Until the times come to say goodbye and then I hate myself and I might want to cry but I won’t let myself go there, oh no. I’ll close the door, walk to the car, drive to work and sell someone a shoe with a smile on my face as I inwardly burn to distract my heart from missing him, but I’m forever missing him. 

Tell Me More About Yourself

Are you thinking about what I’m thinking? Because in my mind, you’ll never find out. But some how you always seem to know. I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but you seem to know what goes on inside this head of mine. I try to surround my head with a protective layer. You have this natural ability of breaking through without me even realizing. Minds wonder how you can slip your way through a whatever crack you manage to find and figure me out like an open book. I hate it. Keep doing it. Lord knows I’m not going to tell you anything any time soon. You have to put me together…like a puzzle. The most difficult you’ve ever tried. Can I honestly say it’ll be worth it in the end? I don’t really know…you have to ask others before you that got that far (that only leaves one person out of the whole lot). Ignoring you on purpose just to see how far I can push the envelope. How far I can push you before you break- a part of me wants you to just so I can tell God, “I told you so”. Repelled by the sign of your interest for me, I try harder to see if you’ll scurry away like the others. Waiting to see what bullshit excuse you have to pull out of your ass just to get yourself out of this situation you thought yourself so high and mighty enough to get yourself into, I sit and wait for the day to approach. Within this time frame I sporadically feed my boredom with feeble attempts to get to know who you really were. In doing that I inadvertently gave you a chance to do the same. Damn. God flipped the tables on me. But I’m not giving up that easy. You haven’t seen all of me yet! And when you do, you’ll leave, you’ll leave. Until then…tell me more about yourself?

Speak to Me

Can I get a witness? Cause every time I try to explain my issue with you, you seem to get this fucked up message that doesn’t go along with anything that made it’s way out my mouth. What is your problem, boy? What’s with this unnecessary business that hasn’t been taken care of? What, you need an invitation to improve yourself? Because it ain’t that hard to open your mouth and lets some words fly out. Is there a problem? Are there several or many cause if so let’s solve them. I hate the way you stay silent and make me feel the need to cause a ruckus just to make it seem like we have something to talk about. Do you communicate? Do you do anything but sing, like talk or debate? Do you have ideas and dreams? Do you even like talking to me? Cause I damn sure didn’t get that vibe. All this meaningless bullshit small talk of hellos and goodbyes. I despise it. It makes my skin crawl and my blood boils behind it. Because when I ask what’s the matter, you can’t seem to find shit to say to that either! What’s the point? What’s the gain? What’s the matter with me, I’ve gone insane because you-won’t-talk. I feel like it’s my job and obligation to massage your imagination with words and thoughts that somehow caught your attention. What specifically are those words, I don’t have a clue. I don’t really know what they are, but I’m sure you do. God forbid me ask you what they are because I may seem like I’m slackin on my job. Yes, my job. I’ve been promoted from volunteer to an employee, but with what benefits? Crappy hours, no communication, low health benefits and…fuck it! No appreciation. I feel like you keep me around for something fun to do. Like someone to entertain you. Someone you can slap around and stick up your nose to and make feel inadequate because you THINK he won’t understand what you’re talking about, Mr. Musicologist. So what I don’t sing. So what I don’t play. So what I don’t know what a seventh chord is but you ain’t the shit cause you do know. Cause I know a lot more than you think I do, sir. I have more knowledge than you’ll ever know. Even if we were to grow old and gray together, you’ll never fully know what’s hidden between the nooks and crannies of my cortex. You’ll always know just enough to know that I’m someone great and should never be underestimated. I’m an not one to be played with! And yet you…still think you smooth. You still think you sly, you think you “da shit”, but let me ask you one question- why? What makes you so great, what makes you so cool, Mr. Musicologist? Cause as far as I’m concerned, your talking skills suck and quite frankly that shit ain’t at all good. It makes me sick, like I’m with someone from the hood. I can’t have one decent conversation about something that really matters in this world, because you, sir, won’t understand it! Like you always tell me…”Oh nevermind…you just won’t get it”. Oh, well fuck you too then, Mr. Musicologist…fuck you. Cause I know a lot of shit that you wouldn’t get and that’s the truth. Shit…make me out to be someone stupid. Again, FUCK YOU. So now what…? Hmm? What’s the deal here? Cause I’m done talking now and now I’m ready to hear what you have to say? C’mon. Say something? Don’t just stand there with your mouth wide open, talk boy! Move your lips. Work out them vocal chords, they’re used for more than singing, you know. Feed me the lyrics of the song you play in your head while hearing what I have to say because my guess is you think in nothing but song, Mr. Musicologist. Give me your poetry of what you have to say to me, speak to me. Just speak to me…