sleepyjoanne
Am I eligible? Can I be at least a choice, someone you would consider? It's funny, a lot of the things I think about go back to you; it's actually really pathetic. But I'd just like to know if you think of me, even just a little. It's fine if you don't! Just wanted to know.
You sit there and wonder how it all started. You don't remember details anymore, just the sinking feeling in your stomach during the aftermath. They always ask you the same questions, tell you the same things. And you feel like you don't even know what you're saying anymore, it's simply a facade. So you nod your head and shake it appropriately, waiting for it all to end.
Fly. Fly far away from here. Don't come back. There are many flowers, many places, many things you must see first. Don't stay here too long. Why are you still lingering? Go off. It is free for you. You have no connections, no reason to stay. Why are you here? Leave. Leave as fast as you can. Don't look back. Go. Go. Go. Do what I can't.
Shining, glimmering. Stars. All about. Surrounding you. Encompassing you. Enchanting you with their presence. Look how small you are, they say. Even their insults seem beautiful. You are insignificant. You are minuscule. Who will remember you, when no one remembers us?
Once I read a book about savagery. Strike that, two books. Maybe three, actually. Who knows, to be honest. All the books I read, they all point to one enemy, and one alone: the human. His savagery. The evil inside. If only it were that simple.
Aftertaste. Sugar turning into acid. Slipping into the crevices of your gums, your teeth. Decay. Swig of mouthwash. Brush of teeth. But it's still there. It's still present.
I was wondering if you were still there. I wasn't sure anymore. I was wondering if tomorrow, you would still be there. I'm not completely sure. Because part of me believes that in a year, we'll be strangers. And you won't be there anymore. And that scares me. Tell me if you are still here. Please answer.
It will take effort. It will not be easy. It will take the willpower of thousands, downsized to the sole power of one. Is the force there? Is the capability there? There is a lack. A lack of though, a lack of being. Being forced. To write, to exist, to breathe, to be. What is voluntary and what is not?
I missed you. I missed the sound of your voice, the way your fingers would intertwine with mine. I missed how you made me laugh, I missed how you made me cry. I would yearn for the moments where we would sit in silence, knowingly basking in each other's presence. I missed you, just by chance of fate.
Again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again. The same thing. Same worry. Same dispassion for ambition. Same yearning for ambition. Same lack of it. Again and again and again and again and again. It wasn't ever going to end, it seemed. Repeat. A broken record, a cliche.
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