honeycomb fingers and flowered dresses

[DropsOfJupiter]

I hope she holds you with honeycomb fingers. I hope she calls you her soulmate and you know it's not true. I hope you realise all your letters start with my name and end with pleas for fire.
Tell her you don't like the summertime. Hit her and look, hit her and smile, hit her and stay. She won't get it. She will cry when you tell her you don't love her, she will never answer after you when you tell her to slit her throat.
You will tell her you don't get the appeal of 3AM and she will not know what to say. You will create everything and then some with your hurricane mind and she will tell you to go to sleep.
There'll be nothing left when the flood comes. What she calls love is white noise. Her smile is ashes and she's silent at times you need her to sing. Her voice is a crime scene and she touches you with gunshot fingertips.
She won't ever be a flowered dress just like you won't ever be hers.
You told her you stopped smoking, leave your lighter in my upturned hands. I hope she holds you with honeycomb fingers. I hope she calls you her soulmate and you know it's not true.

[note: oorspronkelijk spoken word, maar dat gaat een beetje moeilijk.]