My sister is not home yet.

The trees look like bones tonight.
But you, darling, you look alright.

Let's pretend procrastination is a metaphor for perfectionism and let's match up the bass to your heartbeat and then. Maybe then. We'll find it.

We'll find the "jumping for joy" behind the shooting star and self-destruction in ten percent of Johnny Mac's matches and we'll write a book about the recipe for a tragic flaw. Because I've never written a best-seller, but baby, I've read them. Consumed them like candy with too much shoving and not enough savoring.

I'm just tired of this diet of "days well spent" and florescent lighting.
I'm scared of looking for truth behind the emotion in your voice and hearing the truth first and the sarcasm second.
Because I've spent the last seven days puking and the last three days questioning God and four wondering if life is all it is cracked up to be.

And I always wanted to be a mermaid, even after I figured out mermaids didn't "exist." Because neither did the first black President or the first female President or the backspace key. I'm living on a diet of pure imagination and I can't tell you much about the health benefits, but I can tell you about the stomach ache.

And happiness was never supposed to be flirting with sadness, but she got knocked up and out came nostalgia. And he stayed for the baby blues, the couple fell in love, and they named their second daughter "Bittersweet." And the father doesn't beg for money, he begs for moments.

And I've already given the family too much of my time.