it's the lonely occupation
of someone else's wishes.
the position i'll be taking
there's a breath i'd like
and there's being denied,
and there's a tiny january
in your hot august nights;
it could be friends you keep making
in the warmth of fun and sun,
it could be misunderstandings
how you're gonna lose control.
are half completed thoughts,
lost in lights of driftlessness.
will you need me here forever
or am i just about through
to wander through the wonder,
my head all full of doom?
you think directions are the thing
the dead you keep collecting
like callous, tempered plastic?
and there's being denied,
and there's a tiny january
and it's your hot august nights.
for mistaking that the worst
is yet to come from all these