The deja vu is hitting hard, and your heart races, the familarity like a skipping record. It is hard to believe what is real when you're not.
I cannot have her. I touch her and all these snapshots of different girls, different faces, different beds - they shotgun themselves into my head, reminding me why I always keep wanting, reminding me that I've said the same things, they've all said the same things, to ourselves, to each other - over and over and over.
Maybe we share the same addiction for repetition. Of bedroom dancing - moving in and out, together, from each other. Of making the same mistakes again - the push and pull of conscience - I am pushing you away, you are pulling my face to yours, kiss me like you mean it, you are pushing into me, inside me, I am pulling out all the regular excuses - stop, rewind.
It's the same song, xeroxed yearnings - desire on its knees. The same shit again. Do you want to sing this with me, this perfect sonnet, sing us out to sea.
Or do you want to sink with me. Tied together and thrown into the ocean, left there to drown - love like water in our lungs.
But I want to be fucking insatiable. I want to have choices and not choose. Why this ache, then. Why this - fear that I might lose her.