Routine Love (Let’s Break the Mold)
We are two ghosts at the kitchen table, marooned by comfort,
Living the same week for years, one cycle to the next, coffee reheated and conversations pre-chewed.
Dinner arrives by habit, seven sharp, plates clink with the same practiced complaint,
Phones come out like armor, fingers scrolling for something to break the endless chain.
We pretend we’re too tired for change, too wise for spontaneity,
Loving each other from opposite ends of the couch, a ritual so tight we could do it in our sleep,
The air between us filled with what we’re not saying–
Desire fossilized, excitement smothered by the safety of routine,
The clock always wins, and the best years slip by in the lull between texts and silent TV.
We were wild once, lit by the reckless chemistry of strangers,
We trashed plans and skipped work, lived off pizza and skin,
Now we plan sex the way we plan laundry, penciling in passion if we’re not too tired,
But something in me claws at the edges, hungry to drag us out of our own boring skin.
Predictability is a slow rot, love’s enemy hiding in the repetition of who makes the bed and who takes out the trash,
We could still torch this script, swap the autopilot for a flat-out crash.
Pour whiskey in the coffee, call in sick for no reason,
Let’s fuck in the backseat, let the neighbors talk,
Let’s trade polite for obscene, quiet for wild,
Bite the hand of time and remember how to misbehave like two feral kids left unsupervised.
I want to see if our fire is just embers or if we can blow this routine into something new,
Shake off the comfort, let panic and lust drive us down roads we swore we’d never travel,
We don’t need a script, we need a dare–
Take the mundane and make it obscene, make it ridiculous, make it alive.
We’re not dead yet; there’s still something raw beneath all this habit,
The secret is in the chaos–real love is never tidy, it doesn’t fit in a schedule,
It’s the drunk laughter on a random night, the fight that leads to a bruised kiss,
It’s saying “fuck it” to the clock and losing count of the days because we’re too busy living.
If this is love, let’s make it savage again, let’s run until the neighbors complain,
Let’s break every mold we made, or die trying, because I’d rather be wild with you
Than spend one more safe night dying in the slow sleepwalk of routine.