touch my currency
lining lanes to linger, entwining two breaches
I keep on stiffing the policy of what could be
Or maybe I sashayed by August for the 2nd-of-October?
Wondering if I fall through the rhythm of difference, will I be freed?
Does it linger when I shut the voice of my beloved apple caught in red lights?
Or is it just me in lulu of him holding my hand while shooting arrows around the apple of his head?
Am I gone bad again upon touching the two cents of receipts we had shared?
How did it end in my pocket anyway?
I once again acting at my own demise, ignoring the should’s to linger at his lane
When will I ever learn to draw boundaries between my world and the world I see through him?
Why suddenly the world I’m crafting in was tainted by his touch?
Am I beginning to let him leave figments of fondness there?
How am I supposed to keep it if it was already twisted through the pieces itself?
Is it a paradoxical move again like how I lost sense of time and urgency?
Like how I began to watch a film of me personifying the character I once called blind?
Oftentimes, I just need a pair of hands to suck me in, and I will gladly follow
Whichever track, whatever path, unbeknownst where to, so long I'm being held on.
I will follow