The sheets aren't skin.

I miss your voice
I miss how your skin feels like skin
I miss your smell
And I miss how every breath is nostalgia

I miss how underneath your everything
Is something radiating
It's like a tiny flame under grease proof paper
You lost your innocence to a mess of adolescence

I miss the bus stop
I miss the cliché
I miss how it feels to walk down streets in the morning
You at my side.
Breakfast is in the afternoon.

I miss the way our legs used to lock
In a bed singing "drink up baby"
The way you look when you have tears on your skin

I won't be a boy who will wait
I won't be a boy who wants
I won't be a boy whose skin
Is thinking of Karen

We deserve better
I don't want you
But denial knows me all too well

Sometimes when our cheeks almost touch
When we smoke in an insignificant part of Dublin city
The possibility of leaving it all behind
Of never growing up
Is in the sounds we make.

Your frame is in time to my favourite song

That makes my skin sick.