In Which I, Robert - Inlets

I can smell your underbelly, softened and sweet

It gets me going like I’ve nothing to eat

Should I throw your voice around to answer my calls?

Listening to everything I think these things are weakening

Oh Robert, where’s the sign —

Is it in the lazy way she says the same things each time?

The armistice the ticker tape

Throwing fading features in my lonely typeface

In a diary lined with cinderblock I fastened my fame

We all know you chip away at it but you’re playing my game

With a hundred thousand pixelated ways this could end

I’ll keep running into everything until these things are weakening

Oh Robert, bide your time

Shake her jagged heart as thing to unwind

To tie up all my army gear

Bayonets of worried words you say when I’m near

My patience giving out on me

She’s awfully deaf to the irony

Of wilderness and sympathy

A storied romance met with blasphemy

A tempest and a yes in a tackle box

I can give and give on until our names are lost