moon milk

Purple shimmer crazy, wrapped in opalescent mazes. I’m wilted and dry; I’m distasteful, but I try. And still, I cry because of the dimmed light in my mind and all this wasted time. My phone’s about to die, but I have more important truths to swallow: you are never more dreamy than you seem. It’s a gift to feel glittery likeness. It doesn’t mean you’re alive, per se, but it means you’re in perfect tune to receive the muse. Yellow car, pass me by. Remind me all the times I didn’t bother to keep you wondering. I was worth more than a shallow goodbye. Now it’s all twisted, and I wanna take the next train to Indy. I’ll never find myself here, but that in itself is my main issue. I search for shoddy truths in shady lighting, but it’s in the gray that will make me love again. These are sweet delays, and mostly His grace. Don’t disobey. Don’t disobey. The mysterious is who you make claim. It’s you He claims. White car got her staring like a ghost at her past mistakes. “I’m ashamed,” he told her. “Of what?” she asked him blindly. “Of you not remembering my name. You were more to me than what I could display. You were a jade, but I mistook it for fade,” he claimed.

Spring, the perfect time to spiral.