Like a cut on the verge of healing

Like a cut on the verge of healing
Still throbbing and still stinging
Still bleeding at the slightest of knocks
The precursor for the scar, on the index
This is age, always, you wait for it
You can feel it throbbing against your head
Like a shovel throwing dust
It stings like vinegar on the back of a raw throat
Stings like abuse from a family member
It is the precursor for your mark, you have to make it.

Your friends I thought were fools

Poor sports and grossly unattractive

But then I hadn’t met them all

You seemed lovely though

I wanted you to be my  boyfriend

But you said no

So I said to my self I would stop lying

And then you said yes

And I too said no

I didn’t think you thought much of me

You were pretty and funny and older

So I gave you a nickname

Which I think you liked

You then said one of my favorite Beatles songs

Was like a Rod Stewart cover

You only really gave me the time of day

When we grew a little older

and then I don’t remember meeting you again

but I must of...

Did you always have your short beard?

Your laugh was never infectious

It was always comforting though

I remember sleeping on a roof with you

An epileptic should not sleep on roofs

But it is a night I will never forget

The dawn was pink

But I don't think we cared

Like a cut on the verge of healing

A natural remedy for love and age

But is this the end?

Being caught in a trap and thrown in a bag

Sold in a cage and bought for a pet?

The agony of the question 

It is like a cut 

And I don't think that it will heal

Instead i will scratch at it 

And it will fester and go rotten

And the only scar that will remain 

Will be on my my dreams 

Everything is up side down

Everything has turned to the west

You infuriated me on so many occasions

But mostly I was glad I found you

I knew we were historical

I knew that we missed our chance

There was a big Red Suitcase

There were two ceramic goblets

There was an oriental fan

There was chalk on the walls

There was Belle and Sebastian

There were Milkshakes

There were postcards and correspondence

There were mix tapes

There was love