I Can't Get Over Her Even Though I Know She Isn't The One
Nothing with her was casual, I flew around the bush like a bee.
by James McLain
The night's were harsh in the light, as a moth I wanted more.
Some like them hot and as such fires grow inside wavered not.
So I planted a rose garden and fruit tree's around the house.
I couldn't hide all the red flags, so I learned to sew buttons
white made of bone, stitched in, down the middle, vivid purple.
She admits nothing, not as I do, without sight her red lips are.
Pink oysters shine with a luster, muscles open and close around it.
Psychologically all the boxes in the house were closed and empty.
And as such, the moon every night was kept full, from prying eye's.
I can't get over her even though she isn't the one and I'm alone.