House of Moratorium

This one is for her. This one is for the girl in the spring, staring numbly out the window as the world came back to life, wondering how many left turns it takes to make something right. This one is for every hopeful thought she shot down, and for every conviction that she beat into submission. It's for every blackout curtain she closed, desperate to keep out the light. For the latest of nights, when dawn came too soon, And it felt like bleeding out just to leave her room. She's not the one I'm proud of, she's not the one who made it easy. The long drives, the false hope, the teasing, Pouring lies like fountain soda, Spirit parched for anything of worth. Forgiving of nothing, And deserving no forgiveness, There is no crime if there's no witness.

This is my confession: You're the hardest one to write about. Every time I've dared to try, I curl back in doubt.  How do I explain that you live your life on a beat, When you make me forget how to count? I wish I could tell you I've finally gotten it all down.  I should be penning songs, but here I am with a love letter.. But they're one and the same with you, so I suppose it doesn't matter. You see, my darling, I call myself a writer, but the right words never come without a fight. I can list all the facts until I'm out of breath-- but simply calling your eyes "hazel" could never capture their depth. No, you're much more than that, you're mischief, and hidden fire, You are gentle calloused hands, And a glittering smile. With that low breathy laugh, I just want to be wherever you are. You are quiet talks in the car,  And  my reason to grin as you belt notes at the top of your lungs, Or the smell of the air before it rains and we