whatcouldhavebeen, whatneverwas, whatcouldbe.

alibis and wrinkled sheets don’t sparkle in the night.
yet the stars still illuminate the watery vodka light.
and you can sit there and convince yourself that the fourth drink was to blame,
but the stars don’t tell a lie as they light your walk of shame.

i don’t want your harlequin romance, beds of roses.
more like a textbook affair.
and you can sigh and moan and laugh all you want with your fingers in my hair.
but weak knees and atrophy can’t hold my attention for long.
just give me something violet and all together wrong.

skirts lifted at mass and conquests from the past
are like oral bibles for lovers made of glass.
and stone carved lolitas with lips like wine,
are hypnotic enough, but their eyes don’t shine.

and leaving my scent on his pillow isn’t my idea of love.
nor is fighting each battle when push comes to shove.
infatuation truly is like moths and their flames.
so go on and on your bed post carve their names.

i don’t want your harlequin romance, beds of roses.
more like a textbook affair.
and you can sigh and moan and laugh all you want with your fingers in my hair.
but weak knees and atrophy can’t hold my attention for long.
just give me something violet and all together wrong.

oh, but smiles plastered on faces feel more like me at a dance on the wall.
faking happiness or indifference while calculating the height of the fall.
and in my head, i’m singing words that have not yet come out of my pen.
so rewind the tape or put the needle back to the record again.

i don’t want your harlequin romance, beds of roses.
more like a textbook affair.
and you can sigh and moan and laugh all you want with your fingers in my hair.
but weak knees and atrophy can’t hold my attention for long.
just give me something violet and all together wrong.

and i know what bed sheets turned red can never truly regain.
it’s the innocence and luster of their former pure white stain.
because looking into your eyes makes me feel like you’re seeing inside
past all of the smoke screens and most of the gauze.
no more safety pins or ribbons tied up in knots.

i don’t want your steaming passion, in faint fashion
when any girl will do.
and you only love yourself, though you swear it isn’t true.
but weak pleas and the way you tease are a short story made too long.
so here i am, still sitting here, writing out this song.