Send me home and bring down the
skies. If I can remember the words I wrote yesterday, maybe I’ll feel fine. If
you pay me any mind, I’ll start to lose mine. I wish I’d been a lyricist so
these fractured sentences would bloom in the hearts of teenage romantics.
I’m awake, and I don’t want you to
forget.
Keep me
around your finger. It’s so much better than feeling less than alive, than
reading half-assed hormonal detective stories. You may find me less than
steady, but I’m sure to smile anyway, if it puts you anymore at ease. I can
hardly wiggle in the space between the time you breathe in and the moment you
evaporate under my thumbs.
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