blood in my mouth.

the love you take is equal to the love you make.



i bet late at night, you stare up at the same stars as i do.
i bet you spit at them and sing along with the mix tape that's skipping beats.
i bet when it hits twelve below zero, you can't pretend not to miss california.
if only i was the betting kind.

i wonder if one day, you'll dig out that map we made
with the random darts we threw,
and follow it until you've collected every post card that you ever wished someone would send to you.

and i wonder if you'll write yourself a letter like you always wanted
and outline all the things you hate about yourself
and be done with bad habits by the time your pen ran out.

but i know you.
late nights are meant for smokey bars,
the spitting you do is only in bitterness for games that you lose
because you've always been the betting kind.

and i know you.
you're so stuck by the roots that you forced yourself to lay down.
and maybe you miss california but it sure as hell wasn't home.
the only kind of homely warmth you've ever felt was in a glass bottle that always seems to leave you too quickly.

yes, i know you.
the only writing you do is the kind that ends in a paycheck, so you can find your way home.
the only words you put thought in to is the kind that ends in a smirk, so you can find your way in to the arms of someone who, for the evening, won't disappoint your cold heart.


to know you is to love you and
then to leave you.

you let me in and
i wanted out.

wish i was sorry,
but then again i don't.