Plasticity

In the corner of your heart

In a plastic bin,

Made up of plastic toxin

I too am a taint

Singing my last refrain:

Why don't you let me be, and I'll pretend I'm well.

Cause you're too blind to see, and I'm too tired to tell.

And in your apathy, your head begins to swell.

Another tragedy, but you're too cold to feel.

I have a plastic heart,

It doesn't need to heel

It doesn't need your light

So let me fake the feel

Let me fake the hurt and Let me fake the cry.

Let me fake the burning, So that you can survive.

In a plastic bin

Writing plastic lines

The Corner of your heart

Is where I’ll demise.

Summary of the thing 'we call Love.

They were not in love. It's just that the subject, as such, never really came up. It kind of loomed over them like a blissfully stupid cloud. The love cloud.

Guaranteed to rain on your brain, 'til you're moanin' with seratonin.

Maybe what was happening was that they were in love with the idea of being in love. But that's still love, right? Instead of loving each other, they loved an idea. An aspiration. A wish. The other person was more or less of an afterthought. Somewhat expendable, or at the very least, interchangeable.

I love that you make me feel like I'm in love. You, on the other hand, I can take or leave.

Of course, it was just a matter of time before the truth of each other, the hard fact of their unique selfness, their one-of-a-kind snow-flakiness, became unavoidable.

I may be a broken toy, but you are a Chinese chow maow with nothing but lead paint.

Saying goodbye in these circumstances is always very awkward.

"I just had your car towed."

"That's okay, those Flip videos I said I erased are now on the internet."