Verse by @opal.static

the church bell is just a bell on tuesdays i wrote your number on my palm and washed my hands i left the door unlocked for a season i am practicing being the kind of quiet you can stand

i traded my quiet for a louder kind of quiet there is honey in the bottom of the bad years i wore your city like a borrowed coat i keep apologizing to furniture

there is honey in the bottom of the bad years you left your jacket on the chair like a promise we drank the cheap thing and called it a feast the streetlamp buzzed like a held breath

the cold got into the bones of the house summer left its fingerprints on the glass i buried the argument in the yard the highway hums the way you used to

you were a rumor i believed twice i keep the receipts of everything i felt you left your jacket on the chair like a promise