You sat there on the floor, transformed from you muscular to now lean shape, the slide of your back cupped in your would-be's knees. Your smile adds to the shine of the silver panther on the table, reflects the crisp linen runner and offers silent satisfaction akin to the Made in England tea set. The piping steam off your cup embraces your specks, wish it were me, placing nibbles on you instead. But I, I sit at the other end of the room, as if I were an on-looker to your photographed good life, outside of the frame. I still do not know if you are savage in your distance, or civil in your embrace.
I am angry when I see you happy. Does this mean I actually love you?
I am ashamed that you do not acknowledge me. Does this mean jealousy?
Sometimes I wish I were cruel enough to wish you bad. Unfortunately, it does not quite happen that way.
You are the good life I have the opportunity to take a peep in but ever be a part of. And I am hurt that you love so well. Another. You are a music so beautiful, it hurts when I listen. Because I didn't evoke it. All my anger is now pointed back to me, that is what you do from your good life.
You demean my mediocrity. I feel like an unsexy, uneventful bamboo shoot in abundance in a forest, nothing extraordinary to fill you with inspiration. I wait for your touch, for you to take me home. And I stand tall in hopelessness, knowing it will never happen. I am tired of waiting and I am even more tired of giving up.
You are the story that I pray to change the ending of. With me. May be that would be my good life. Your clothes have a better life than I, caressing you significantly. It is terrible to stand complete because the stance is lonely. The steam is over, an unannounced battery giving up its life.
I think I write my heart out when I write these things about you, and I am left purposeless because you will never read them, never know me, from the other end of your good life, pining for you with a smile so forlorn that the mirror rejects it too.
Your good life reads prosperity and profound love. Mine is pitiful. Here you get up, timing your day with creating jingles and socialising with strangers. And a good life of asks follow your whereabouts. The last bit of tea and a cookie half-bitten, they stay -- undesired -- like me. All our goodness fall short in your grand aesthetics. I stand tall, like a bamboo shoot or a sculpture, waiting for you to inhale life in me, just how the rains do. I am the open umbrella, from which the rains wash away.
We are both complete, without each other. And it is a terrible, terrible suffering, my good life, you will never know.
I am angry when I see you happy. Does this mean I actually love you?
I am ashamed that you do not acknowledge me. Does this mean jealousy?
Sometimes I wish I were cruel enough to wish you bad. Unfortunately, it does not quite happen that way.
You are the good life I have the opportunity to take a peep in but ever be a part of. And I am hurt that you love so well. Another. You are a music so beautiful, it hurts when I listen. Because I didn't evoke it. All my anger is now pointed back to me, that is what you do from your good life.
You demean my mediocrity. I feel like an unsexy, uneventful bamboo shoot in abundance in a forest, nothing extraordinary to fill you with inspiration. I wait for your touch, for you to take me home. And I stand tall in hopelessness, knowing it will never happen. I am tired of waiting and I am even more tired of giving up.
You are the story that I pray to change the ending of. With me. May be that would be my good life. Your clothes have a better life than I, caressing you significantly. It is terrible to stand complete because the stance is lonely. The steam is over, an unannounced battery giving up its life.
I think I write my heart out when I write these things about you, and I am left purposeless because you will never read them, never know me, from the other end of your good life, pining for you with a smile so forlorn that the mirror rejects it too.
Your good life reads prosperity and profound love. Mine is pitiful. Here you get up, timing your day with creating jingles and socialising with strangers. And a good life of asks follow your whereabouts. The last bit of tea and a cookie half-bitten, they stay -- undesired -- like me. All our goodness fall short in your grand aesthetics. I stand tall, like a bamboo shoot or a sculpture, waiting for you to inhale life in me, just how the rains do. I am the open umbrella, from which the rains wash away.
We are both complete, without each other. And it is a terrible, terrible suffering, my good life, you will never know.
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