Antique pain:
There’s cracks in the fine china - ones you haven’t seen before - and it’s strange, because all of it’s colours used to run so brightly, become wispy now they’re out of touch with love. Her hand slips, caught on rough edges, but yet she doesn’t cry when it bleeds for pain feels oh so antique.
They worsen upon every touch for how that’s just the way they’re built yet they don’t fall apart straight the way, and you’re left pondering how something so fragile can last so long? It leaves you with a strange taste in your mouth unbeknownst to you but it must be hard to gather the fact people live happy while you suffer.
You must brave the fear before you are able to live peacefully, you must just barely miss the touch of death before you can do the impossible. You must have words to live by before you truly start loving and living.
Fall upon the lovers hand, taste the sweet kiss o’ death,
Antique pain replaces the feeling if faux tears, dripping upon thy flank and staining ones beauty, dry your tears my darling, don’t waste your jewels on those not worth it.
My fingers brush against the cheekbone of the corpse of she I used to know oh so well, but she fell lost in the mind of one new. Wasted love drips off of the walls that held in the words not meant, things not said.
A cacophony of silence in a world full of noise would never work, yet we’ve proved it clearly does, too well.
And I guess ripping open old wounds causes antique pain, and they will always be cracks in the fine China no matter how you protect it.