I'm not so sure if I know you anymore.
Your like a relative at a reunion,
feeling familiar but more foreign than
another language, I can speak of you feigning
fluency, gaining nothing as I give new meanings
to lying through my teeth.
Ironic much that speaking lies may get me
to the truth of you quicker than those who
think they know you, but to call shenanigans on faith
leaves the argument blank and everybody moves
on to lighter subjects, lest they have to wrap their
minds around twisty, new concepts.
Might "new" be a false term as there's always
been an alternative? I was tempted into this in
the first place, you were just a byproduct, and by product
I mean a bonus produced from the reason I went to your
house the first time, and the proceeding months after that.
How sad it is when I may find more comfort in sitting
against a stiff drink rather than your arms. The drink,
you see, has the courtesy to warm me. Why is it these are
the spirits that lift me nowadays?
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