Habit.

Bones, bones, bones.

You love those bones.

With your head downs, with your glasses on.

To read, to defense, to make it perfect.

Heart, heart, heat.

You treasure those hearts.

With you strong arms, and your life goes on.

To hide, to escape, to make it eternally disappear.

I don't think you will make fun of other's ginger hair.

I don't thin you will make fun of other's appearance.

I don't think you will make fun of other's speech.

But you did fight back and made me hold my breath.

At least no one gets hurt, nobody dies.

When you showed me your smile on your face last night, 

I just remembered that time flies so fast and how stupid she was.

Maybe I should buy a cake, and have  a shot;

Maybe I should shoot those fuckers, to fill up my own emptiness.

Maybe I should make a vow to myself, and back to your door.

Maybe I'm not crazy, it's just my automatic systematic habit.

I do hope you had a great one.

And I'm jealous that I never had chance to feel those roots between my legs.

[Torn Boy Love Spirit. 2]