Acomist
but I haven't got
Joel tastes like every he is.
Coffee and cigarettes and silent despair but he won't touch your flesh. It's heated and you feel the need, the belonging but he's gone in a flash, his head in his hands. You think it may be because you are too much (of what you don't like to think anymore) as you stare at his sickly spine but he sighs like it's something else.
You touch his side and it's all gone as you see his soundless tears.
"London, I..."
His skin is cold, it always is and he breathes like he hasn't got the air to spare. The rhyme smooths loosely over your brain, weaving into cells.
"I'm dying."
Coffee and cigarettes and silent despair but he won't touch your flesh. It's heated and you feel the need, the belonging but he's gone in a flash, his head in his hands. You think it may be because you are too much (of what you don't like to think anymore) as you stare at his sickly spine but he sighs like it's something else.
You touch his side and it's all gone as you see his soundless tears.
"London, I..."
His skin is cold, it always is and he breathes like he hasn't got the air to spare. The rhyme smooths loosely over your brain, weaving into cells.
"I'm dying."
♠ ♠ ♠
I was pretty high when I wrote this whole thing so I'm unsure whether I'll ever finish it. Apologies in advance if I don't.Oh and in case you haven't figured out, this is the chapter credit. Don't tell me Morrissey isn't the most perfect, delightfully conceited creature to walk this earth.