This is an ode to lost weekends.
The sun rises bleary eyed and late for work, shits, showers and shaves
The morning wrestles free from memories of a convenient yesterday
From holidays from real to real holidays, redoing what was undone,
Colour running from your million moles to my skin.
My fingers recount to the keyboard, stories of where I've been.
Talk about talking of getting older in words you can only pretend not to understand.
Basking in glory of the days frittered away, buried under weight of days to come by.
Love is scattered, strewn around, left in the streets all the way from your arms to my front door, wandering wasted, wondering wide-eyed, which way is home.
And I'm lying awake in sheets that're too cold from the air conditioning,
wearing the grayscale of neither sleep nor rampant wakefulness, floating in you.
The sun rises bleary eyed and late for work, shits, showers and shaves
The morning wrestles free from memories of a convenient yesterday
From holidays from real to real holidays, redoing what was undone,
Colour running from your million moles to my skin.
My fingers recount to the keyboard, stories of where I've been.
Talk about talking of getting older in words you can only pretend not to understand.
Basking in glory of the days frittered away, buried under weight of days to come by.
Love is scattered, strewn around, left in the streets all the way from your arms to my front door, wandering wasted, wondering wide-eyed, which way is home.
And I'm lying awake in sheets that're too cold from the air conditioning,
wearing the grayscale of neither sleep nor rampant wakefulness, floating in you.
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