for a minute it is summer and i am your punkrock muse. we have been rolling around, alternating between holding each other and breathing deeply. i turn over onto my stomach and let my hair fall into my eyes. it is not brown, it is not blonde, it is that dirty mix in between, so bland that it blends with the color of the wood panelling on your walls, and my eye cannot distinguish one from the other when i am so close to both. your upper lip is rough like sandpaper. i hate that cliche but it's the only one that fits. and when you kiss me you scratch my cheeks and mouth and back. you ask what's wrong, only i can't tell you because i don't know. you said some things, but that's not it, really. we watched a movie about a girl in a famous painting, a movie that will have me thinking for a long time, but that's not it, either. it's almost time for you to leave, and then i hear that song on her stereo a few rooms away, and i hate you and i love you all at once. i want you to hold me tight, then i push you away. i'm going to cry, it's only a matter of time, so the question becomes whether you'll see it, hear it, or feel it before i turn my head to show you the tears that have slid down my nose and onto my dry lips. suddenly i feel like i have felt you for the first time all over again, you look at me like you know it too, and what happens next is behind closed doors. i thought i could make you stay. money and work ruin everything. tomorrow i want to hide where no one else can find us, in a bathtub, in a closet, in a ballroom. i'll give you a million dollars if you slowdance with me. pierce my ears and paint my hair black, now sing to me the way i know chris martin sings to gwyneth in his ritzy london apartment
i had to find you, tell you i need you, tell you i set you apart
