My Love Isnt A Condition Of Mine. Perhaps, Im Fated To It.

my love isn’t a condition of mine. perhaps, i’m fated to it.

per i’m doomed by the claws of grief / fully knowing ‘finale’ can reach / wind has brought me over your cologne / and drought over memory, i’ll love. when i can only rest my bones within your chest / and yet burn my mouth through your spine / i’ll descant over my love for your emptiness.

my coffee got colder against the words / plain saints tattooed on the hands under my shirt. / miss you so

i’m gonna throw everything i own off a cliff

and i am ready to let the sun rise again. as the warm light touches the mold i hope to change. these streets are not mine anymore. i don’t recognize the freshly bloomed flowers.

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grieve has achieved my hands at such a young age / and i’ve worn it like a glove from then.

i change them every weekend as / i feel the aim to clean the worn nights / used to reach down my cold spine. / as such a daredevil i felt since my time was spent / on what my eyes couldn’t pretend / to watch as i lost on every wish upon a prayer. / so may this be a cut off / on what i should call an orison from the ones who couldn’t. / and as the words might rely on this cadence / i’ll try to fill and check for a new riddance / where the hands i own won’t get so eager for the losing. / i’ll bare the race from looking at the lost causes threshold.