  (no title) Glass bottles clank against your bedroom door masking the sound of fists against the floor. Last night was calm and cool as we whispered the secrets of old and lonely fools. Conversation sailed deeper and our words began to slur into the night. I could tell it’d been a long time since you’d given up yourself. We sloshed and threw back cold ones by the pack.
We tossed one and talked some but talked more than we drank. We laughed to soothe our stories and skipped rocks across the deck. Then I threw a bottle at your door and you drummed your fists against the floor and we wrote a lullaby for us. perfect You have a knack for collecting perfect things, from the perfect plastic people in your room to your perfect dreams. And the way you walk around you make perfect look so easy but there’s gotta be a struggle in your step.
And the way you laugh you make perfect look almost tangible but there’s something about your smile that’s not quite right. Maybe it’s all this perfect you’ve got in you starting to wear you away. Well, I’ve always wanted to sit with someone better. So if you’d like we could explore your imperfections together. We’ll tear your perfect pictures apart and toss chaos around your room. We’ll empty a corner where you can breathe. all work copyright © smokeycustard 
