4 months from now it'll be 4 in the morning and you'll look for me in dial tones and half-empty beer bottles. Searching for a little something something, a little taste of my angel dusted lips, a little round of pretending you're igniting love affairs.
4 months from now it'll be 4 in the morning and you'll be looking for me in trash bins outside your local diner. Listening to the out of tune sounds of my unsteady mind on voicemails you never thought you'd hear again.
4 months from now it'll be 4 in the morning and you'll be sleeping with her and dreaming of me.
4 months ago it was 4 in the morning, and I was sprawled out along my bed seams.
I was wondering about my dreams and why you tasted better in them.
And it all made perfect sense.
We all have 4 months of 4 in the mornings we spend missing people we lose.
Building them up in our heads on shrines made from our bones, sealing the foundation, and setting atop a house filled with locked windows.
Let me go so that I can open up the windows and let the birds sing me to sleep.
Stay far from me, nostalgia. Stay far from me. I've got my own scores to settle, than to worry about another 4 in the morning filling myself up with the lies of men as a distraction.
I thought, 4 months ago at 4 in the morning, I should kill myself because I saw no other point to continuing myself. No point in expanding and growing when all I was, was a narrow tunnel of nightmares.
Until yesterday at 4 in the morning, I said, I will not kill myself tonight. I don't need anyone waking up in the middle of the night missing me, building me up in their heads, when I'm building myself up and pushing along the tide.