when i'm empty, i believe the world is as cold as i am.
in faces passing through the sweaty night, i see only danger
and hands sliding across me and purposeful lips make my heart beat as it should,
but something begs me:
run.
and i do,

i'm always the one to walk
but i end up looking back,
wanting could have beens.
but it's gotten so the contrast is too high
and either it's true love or dine and dash.
mostly, i'm looting the evacuated cities hours before they drop the bombs -
i'll take what i can get and escape as close to unscathed as you can be
when all you do is remind yourself to be ready to run.

the heart needs time to hide:
a good shower,
an empty bed
and silence to drown out the pangs of self-escalated confusion.

the truth is, i still believe
and all the wasted nights comprise a search,
insurance against letting someone slip past.
some nights they come so close
but i can't make them love me or
make me love them.
i've stopped fantisizing about the classics,
i don't believe they ever were.

time and love and the wind all just move
and these things you can't hold down with fingers or toes.
they're built to be transient
so why cry when they're gone?
or never seem to appear at all.

(this is how i broke the ipalm the first time, using the backlight to write this during a bout of crazed insomnia. just found it again, still intact after many reloads..)