Losing fragments of my soul between pages.
Finding new ones before epilogues.
Half the world's on hiatus for the weekend.
It feels like the end of the world,
And it tastes like magic.
This is perfection in a dust cover.
Throw a rope down my throat and save my guts.
I'm leasing everything below my neck.
Half of this is over.
Make entry points when you take your first breath
Out of blanket cocoons; this is completely over.
But every layer of soap you paint yourself,
Is a layer of the day you discard.
It all ends with you.