TW // abuse/manipulation implications 

it’s midnight somewhere,

yet i switch the hands holding this ink-reminiscent coffee and can only think about the ways you talk to me as i sit ironically on this train to you.

you know the one. 

it’s bumpy and the backs of my legs ache as they turn this specific shade of pink. 

my body pops upon seeing the bumps that get larger than i ever thought i could think.

i hate this train and this coffee there’s no way i’m not gonna drink. 

and now they’re staring at me. 

which means they’re staring at you.

a doing of you in penn station at noon. 

the art down the back of the lourve. 

when you paint, you don’t stroke. 

when you caress, you just choke. 

yet, when you present, they don’t know.   

they really just don’t. 

but it’s midnight over there

and there is where i’d care to go. 

yet i switch the hands holding this ink-reminiscent coffee and can only think about the ways you talk to me as i sit ironically on this train to you.

you know the one. 

and i do too. 

it’s never not noon. 

but it’s midnight somewhere.

that’s just the truth.