transatlanticism

i'm a salty mascara-smeared mess
in your old tshirt and the pair of panties you loved on me
and i crawl around this dank bedroom in the dark at 4:53 in the morning
trying to find some meaning in the songs you left behind for me to listen to -
"there's a tangled thread inside his head
with nothing on either end"

you're still a mystery to me and maybe that's why i'm so in love with you
because i can't figure out which direction you'll take off in next,
and i can't figure out which version of myself to be around you because
you seem to like every personality - and it's so confusing to come to terms with the
fact that i don't need to assume a disguise around you, because you
dig your nails under all the facades and marvel at the raw version of me instead

i want to shock you because i can't ever seem to take you by surprise
i want to make you feel something new, i want to prove myself as someone you never thought i could be
i want to stop worshipping you and start competing with you
but i wear all your old clothes like talismans of your melbournian presence
and i carry these relics around with me as if i were some breathing effigy in remembrance of you,
or the echo of yourself you left behind, i should say
and all i'm doing is attaching myself to some ghost, when the real-time you is
soaring above the skyline in some reality that makes my town, my own life
seem so deadbeat

you tell me that you look at the photos of us every night
but you are so far away
and i feel like our love is starting to drown