What a typically shit thing to do.

Graphite on paper. Work in progress.

I read your letter, lines anxiously pulled in blue across the page forming structures that didn't mean a thing to me. Your confessions, ransoms confusingly noted in the emptiness that prevails of unkept promises; sewing through the mess. I search for you between my feet but you escaped after you broke in, swung between tiny veins, because you realised i didn't mean a thing to you. Its heavy and denied but to confess I knew you would break... me, freight train pulling me to it's gate because I knew I didn't mean a thing to you. DB.

"This is the moment that you know, That you told her that you loved her but you don't. You touch her skin and then you think, That she is beautiful but she don't mean a thing to me. Yeah, she is beautiful but she don't mean a thing to me. I wanted to believe in all the words that I was speaking, As we moved together in the dark. And all the friends that I was telling, All the playful misspellings and every bite I gave you left a mark. So one last touch and then you'll go, And we'll pretend that it meant something so much more. But it was vile, and it was cheap and you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me, yeah you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me". Death Cab for Cutie.