Crispy realization

 I want to unravel in a place like this, our little bed and breakfast is probably down the street on the right. And oh, when we finally get there after a bottle of beer we don't even finish. Wooden steps, splintering and fraying at their edges. Slight musk of old tapestry. Maybe the floral wallpaper's peeling back to reveal its underside. So what if it's the colour of dried out lemons, or if it isn't sticky anymore. I'll leave a note to myself at that exact moment to remember,

remember how we were all once glassy-eyed with a lust for life. And we lose that brilliance bit by boring bit, day by desolate day, but there's still enough to keep these four walls up.

"Stacks" is playing and behind his hazy falsetto we are tumbling over each other's feet, trying to be quiet but the god damn floorboards creak so loud they're competing with my heartbeat in my ears, and fuck, I think it is the sound of my coming undone. I know you'd pull me back together in the morning, not to completion, but to the slightest state of disarray so I am frazzled, heavy-handed, till I find my way back to you again.