I’m running myself in circles thinking you’ll ever wait for me
In a year or three, perhaps I’ll get to you
But for now I’m holding onto apparitions in the corners of my cluttered mind
The pencil shavings, the perpetual songs and partly digested existentialism running riot, renting room, I never really cared much about anything until I knew you.
Would you be so kind as to not be so magnetising?
You’re putting images in my brain, it’s surprising how I haven’t gone crazy.
All the unwritten letters, unexpressed poetry, hugs never had, skin never touched. Hazy details, textures, feelings, flavours, colours, sounds, memories. Yours. I want to know. Is that such an unreasonable request?
I’ve got plans to get to you, I know you do too, a half assed hope of some euphoric encounter with a human that makes every marginally bad thing in my life okay.
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