Part 1:
You're not my motel 8.
But I still let you affect me. Back when I was sweet 16, and you smelt like Love Spell.
My mother called in pinning. Passed the marques of churches, and her fingers would be pointing.
Let it go, just let it
(more)go.
And so, I think about tattoos, cherries, how I always wanted to meet you in Montauk.
Part 2:
You're not my motel 8, but I've been dreaming of you.
Scary nightmares, shaking myself awake.
Curling up in the crook of their chest. Hot breath on my ears. And when they spin, turn over, I wonder
if the dream came true, would
this feeling feel different.
Would you feel the absence.
Would you feel the depletion in heat?
Part 3:
You're not my motel 8, but you're still burning
cigarette holes into my carpets. Reminders of your arms.
Tests of limits. Tests of limits.
You slept on my floor for months, yet we never touched
between our legs. Maybe you
were afraid of our similarities. But I
hear you got some differences now. But still pacing around
that nowhere town you were born in.
We use to promise each other we'd get out. Even
spread maps open like screen doors.
but you got stuck.
but I got out.
Part 4:
You're not my motel 8, but the highway is buzzing.
Like buffalo, its getting colder
66 stars and I'm still counting.
I just want to get warm. Cause winter is cussing me out.
But its still better than its been in years.
And today seems to be the first day
my heads been above the water. and as I start
Looking out across the grey of this city.
I wonder how it was that I was drowning at all...
(less)
