THOUSAND FOREVERS: EACH ONE ENDS

On a sunday you get another text from yet another girl,

(assume what you will, it will be correct)

and although i throw a (slight) fit and although you laugh i know.

that you are mine, even though you're not, not really,

but we hastily slice off a portion of this fucked-up continuum,

stuff it kneedeep into my pockets,

and let it glimpse moonlight only when we want to.(never)

(Minkowski could kiss our ass and i dont know much about physics but i think this isn't what relative was supposed to mean). in other words

i clutch onto 'now' so hard my palm bleeds : time was never good to me.

but its a sunday and i fuck up repeatedly only to have the time to fix it.

i can't drive you away if there's nowhere to go.

you are my best fuck up and my favourite what if.

and i unravel and ravel myself between every five four minutes.

i construct myself a body of disfigured limbs.

moments lost and break her down again.

and i know, this isn't going to last 

and one day, we will see the sun again:  you will laugh in her light and i will die a little inside because i know the truth: we have a thousand forevers and each and every one of them still ends.

this timeline cuts off for one of us soon and i am afraid it's not you my love.