Mismatched bottle-gaze

Push me under. Pull me further.

There's nothing left for me to do but snap at phantoms and etch (with needle-y fingers) a thousand vitiating hymns into granitized guilt-trips. There's nothing left for me to do but weave into smoke haloes the subtle threads of a paean decaying.

On the inside, umbrella-eyes opened under a mendacious mass of tears shed for love lost through labyrinthine miscommunications.

"And I've been waiting for so long..."