Better Off of Me

I might not have told you that you'd be better off done. That without the constant wash of selfish prattle and happy reckons that you'd be alone, but better off somehow for it. That I wouldn't need to prove myself to me or you but always putting that best foot forward until you thought I was being condescending and worthless and haughty and mindful of all the things that made you to loathe, made you to close, and made you to leave. We could have rolled over together and washed in the warmth of the whiteness of lust and felt what it's like to forget the first and remember the last, the latest and greatest and feel it come upon you like an ice cube down your back, or a tooth at your neck. Lasting like that words will fall and fail and be forgotten when looks back are clouded to obscurity by the white and now threadbare, barely recognizable as something sought for and likened to romance. Being done and doing none harm was relatively fast and working for one when it was easier to lick wounds and play in those pitfall places to practice frolics and dance moves created with one thing in mind. The only thing that stopped the curve, that balanced the bar was the sensation of fleeting forgetfulness and searching for one handhold while dousing the other, losing the first to the lousy latter. So forced to move further and farther behind back to the comforts and veritable signs that once filled me laughter and all kinds of time and the meaning I made when the rest wouldn't fit but it worked for me because I'd had only one regret that made the hand wringing a habit and the waiting a problem. So I slip too and make no mistake, it can be for good, and well it would have done to keep myself true deciding that not where I want to be is as good as getting to where I need to be or at least fooling ourselves that this is how it must be.