My faith is only here in jest.
Inside: the same spiraling stupor.
I can't help but think that this all will end with me letting myself down.
I get used to the ground around my feet.
I'm standing, somber, in an estuary.
I'm miles from a single set of ears in the mire of self doubt.
Do you remember the warming glow of summertime?
Your foggy breath is so damn haunting.
I cannot muster up the courage to finally tell you:
That to hold you in my arms is all I've wanted.
For years I've been out of good excuses
I've been forced to settle in this skin
These shaking hands will be my namesake.
Forever shooting wide of the mark.
Inside my bedroom: the smell of blood and amatol.
This charmless battle cannot wax poetic.
My eyes are so beguiled by terrestrial emotion
That I dare not even look up at the sky.