It's funny that the more I make up my mind
The less I know and like my life;
I wish I could put make-up on my insides
To make you believe I'm not about to die.
When I see you, I still tremble, writhe, fade and stammer;
You carry your old scent and the "ex" rythm pulsing inside,
And I drag my past of last kisses, they remember you so well;
They remember settling on your hair,
They recall pausing on your neck,
They evoke the profoundest of pains:
A masochist's dream, a whip without a hilt.
You smile, you know
Every one of my thoughts;
Separately, like a glove, like a flower,
They open up in your hand.