kiss an angel { good mornin' }
Jan 10, 2017 1:48:23 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jan 10, 2017 1:48:23 GMT -5
J E S S I E M C C R E E |
I ain't what I used to be.
Murderer, hot metal in bloody hands; I got bad lungs, ha. Not the only smoker around these parts and Reinhardt started taking pacts, throwing filled cartons away with one dad-huff and we complained that we spent our own money on 'em -- he didn't wait long before shouting "who are you all assuming gives this money?"
Apparently bunch'a peacekeepers with asthma ain't worth much, I reckon.
Tough knuckles o'mine punch into Genji's side, the two of us runnin round these parts like I'mma deadlock kid again -- he's got his own type of fun. Reinhardt snatched my last marlboro and we sat laughin over fuck-who-knows 'till the clock hit midnight and we parted ways. This lonely ass apartment ain't no burial for a cowboy; good. I don't play on dyin' anytime soon.
I ain't sleep much either. One good shower, laying awake for a couple hours 'till sun beckons that old song I know too damn well; Mercy's hand still burning warmth into the pair a mine with that you'll be good promise. There's thirty minutes where I slip, the red neon of my bedside clock burnin' a hole into my eyes and as I slept I saw nothin' but Reinhardt, a good dream. I think.
He don't fully hate me, I guess.
Eight a.m. air fills my lungs in a nice sense, early mornin' sun yawnin' with the rest of us -- a boy pauses not to far. Nice legs, breathing for a second and a second's all I need,("Hanzo!")
I ain't one for hesitating.
"Aye, pardner!" There ain't been much wiggle room for gettin' this kid out my mind and with high noon bleedin', no cigarettes in my pocket and a smile in my heart, "reckon a race?"
There ain't much use in waitin' for the reaper's silver bullet.