Exotic Skeleton Sangria

This house ordinary quiet
All I got is thoughts in riot
Simple shades of yellow pale
My dark walls a prison cell
You got your hands in my hair
Devil struck and spider snared
Prisons of our own making
She sleeps and he's not waking.

Do she
Do she love you
Do she
Do she Do
Do she
Do she know you
No she
Don't know you like I do.

Thieves and liars in the making
in a world that aint worth taking
Does she know you like I do
Does it matter if she knew
What hands are silent saying
Tangle of intentions playing
Glancing eyes and slipping tongues
Her whole world come undone.

Do she
Do she love you
Do she
Do she Do
Do she
Do she know you
No she
Don't know you like I do.

Skeletons dance in the nude
Closet door dulls the tune
Sangria wine remembered taste
Stolen moments she can't face
You glance and dodge but return
Exotic truths in how we burn
She knows you won't stay
Just some domestic game you play.

Do she
Do she love you
Do she
Do she Do
Do she
Do she know you
No she
Don't know you like I do.

Shattered hearts forgotten here
Bodies bared and hearts sealed
He tosses turns beneath my fingers
Haunted her pale face lingers
Shut the door swallow the key
Seal them up when your with me
Do she know you like I do
Do he know that I ain't true

Do she
Do she love you
Do she
Do she Do
Do she
Do she know you
No she
Don't know you like I do.
Do he
Do he love me
Do he know that I ain't true

Monday I Will Love You

Right now, you are an empty space,
a blank spot, a non-entity.
I do not see you.
Maybe, Monday I will love you,
but at the moment, I feel nothing
except that this day to day
disingenuous regard for one another
caustically erodes love's foundations.
I look outside my window at roses
or sparrows to find my heart no longer
wings its way to your eyes or your kisses;
I think only of flying away.
My mother and father for forty years
have eaten meals and lay their heads
weary from the day down together;
it sounds tragic or sickly sweet.
I am afraid that if love means this
then I do not want love.
Instead, give me passion, to die quickly,
to be reborn phoenix lovely in flames,
to never be complacent or downtrodden
in plain, ordinary, unchanging love.
I see it in their eyes sometimes
the questions of the rightness of love.
I only know that today love is a nail
in dead silence like a coffin.
I would rather the agony of nails in palms
to know that I am alive. I don't want to sleep.
Today I do not love you, but wish you would
rough hand against cheek remind me of stolen
nights beneath stars or quick mornings before
coffee.
Maybe Monday I will love you, but on a Wednesday
my heart beats in frustration craving what once
sent my skin tingling and my mind reeling in
grappling body warfare for affirmation of life.