the toffs in shirts and ties, I’m leaning back on my chair, daring the younger kids to put stuff in shopping bags, the disco lights flare off and on into the night and popstars sing hotel motel holiday inn like they’re going somewhere nice. alcohol makes
the heart grow fonder, and I don’t have you at my finger tips to ignore everyone else, makes me want to throw my money way, into the bandits, into my pint glass, out of pocket out of mind. you’re Christlike, all glory to me, everytime I stop thinking about you I’m glad I get a rest, not being near you is killing me softly like an 80s ballad, like a slow malignant tumour making it’s way from my heart to my head.
my coffee buzz wore off about 15 minutes back, I was thinking about your
sad face outside the greyhound bus in central London, me in my overpriced jacket and you putting on cherry chapstick. I don’t like my inability to say goodbye with adequate emotions, I’m really getting sick of saying goodbye in general, and when in stud stud studying I’m really dy dy dying thinking about you with the ceiling fan beyond your big blue eyes, or you in that
party picking up the photo frame really polite and delicate and me completely unashamed and unflagged by my raucous stupid behaviour, playfighting with you to the point you get annoyed, fall off the bed, and walking down the street with my hand in your duffel pocket trying to figure stuff out, stupid
questions, shaky jokes, I’ll turn this car around, I’m not bothered where I am aslong as I’m with you, to quote the most quoted, I’m pretty much at your whim, im pretty much at my wits end with this place.
