A whole twelve hours later.

She called to say hello,

but I was moving on.

Some called it nuclear,

and some called it an attraction.

I just stayed,

so I could track her attention.

Well,

there’s a story,

in these old bones that never move,

that groan as I shuffle around,

searching for the truth.

There’s a story,

in these old wounds,

that pour blood,

everytime I see her.

There’s something called love.

There’s a dirty little monster with a mask,

no clothes on,

heart on his sleeve,

everything bared for the world to see,

(or so it seems.)

We’ll just call him lust.

Well,

one is true,

and the other is disguising itself as the other.

No,

it’s not the kind of thing you would learn from your mother.

It’s the kind of thing,

you would learn,

after being stabbed in the heart by your lover.

I remember when we were young,

when the roses smelled so fresh,

when you glowed with a healthy innocence,

before Lust came along.

He blew one fatal kiss,

then the flowers wilted,

your skin paled,

and you turned so mean.

I wish I could turn back time,

and remove the mask,

so my heart wouldn’t be so crushed.

A whole 12 hours later,

she called to say goodbye,

but I was long gone.