Could Have Been
Everything looks nicer
from the outside,
doesn’t it?
Coloured pillows
and layers of blankets,
warmer than it really is.
Inside, underneath
things are covered
in who we could
have been.
Everything looks pretty
from the outside,
doesn’t it?
Coloured lips
and layers of friendship,
colder than it could
have been.
She tells me this is dirty:
the lack of space, the way I taste,
the clothes we forgot to wash
while trying to wash
away our sins.
There’s never enough time
or length between
the last mistake
and that’s why
you sleep next to me
and not with me
anymore.
