slowdance on the inside.

Get out of my head.
The pathways connecting within my brain are malfunctioning, I think. You were supposed to be a silly notion. A nothing that was here and then gone. But your serenades fell upon my ears and wandered through my bloodstream for so long that I couldn't even feel you curling around the edges of my cells, rewriting everything I had rehearsed over and over again: nothing. nothing. nothing. breathe.
But I forgot that sometimes in the still of night, people lose patience and disappear...right when you want them there. I forgot that I detached my brain from my circulatory system. As I placed the pieces back together, you were already gone, and I had already remembered how much I forgot how fucking good it was to have you around. Your fingertips cradled the wood and nylon in that perfect way that no one can really replicate, but when they try, you come flooding back.

Everything comes flooding back.
And all I have are cliche and futile attempts at words to bring you back around.
It wasn't supposed to feel at all.
I wasn't supposed to feel at all.

So what the hell is this?

I hear your name too many times, falling from lips of people who know not to bring you around. For some reason, my eyes always fall and I find something better to talk about. I kinda sorta really hate it when our name sticks to the drums of my ears because it's just another way for you to find that rhythm through my body when I least expect it.
It feeds my impulsive tendency hungry fingertips like the most satiating thing they have ever placed their small, articulate, and unnoticed ridges upon as I find the digits that connect me to you.
But, for some strange reason, you are in no way connected to me.
nothing. nothing. nothing.
that's all you were supposed to be as I whispered regret and my walls became crumbling, insignificant, and weak before your feet.

silly, silly brain.