• I stuffed an old memory in my pocket
  And after a year I tried wrenching it out,
  But it was tangled to hell.
  With the happier times knotted through my insides,
  I sit on the grass cross-legged and begin.

  I can feel your chest rising against the side of my head as your hot breath gently brushes my hair.

  I was wrong to believe in you.

  The odds came crashing down on me and I don't miss you the way I used to
  But I'm obsessed with the ghost of your best qualities.

  Your ears move up as your cheeks wrinkle and your beautiful, crooked teeth present themselves.

  But it's not real.
  It's a perverse illusion I preserve in my mind to soothe myself.

  I can't touch the perfect image I created of you
  And I definitely don't want to touch the real, broken you.

  Is that why god created us in his image?

  Or is that why we created him in ours?
  
  https://soundcloud.com/night_soil/muliercatenata

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