i'm sure

there's got to be

a corruption

in the glowin' dots

of my constellation

'cause i always seem

to be so stuck

in the same ol' beam

that sneaks in

from behind

the net curtain

in the hope of

meeting you again

somewhere

midway

in the middle of

a summer day

oh i know

i know

these tricks of fate

for they make me pay

at any cost

regardless of

how i feel

so utterly lost

and so stuck

like a crumpled reel

of a vintage camera

that doesn't go back

and can't come out

either

oh this 'either'...

alas! how i wish

i could be

that camera in which

the images flip out

by themselves

one by one

and not so stuck

like a crumpled reel

of a vintage camera

but ever so smooth

like silk rolling

down the mahogany

staircase railing

oh what do we call it?

which gives out

pretty pictures

vibrant 'n' deceptive

easily receptive

what do we call it?

that fills the void

oh i know now

the crumpled me

was so devoid

that all i ever wanted

was to be a polaroid