I write thousands of lines about you in my mind, spinning them backwards and forwards with little pleasure. It’s an obsession. An outlet. It is simple release.
I need it.
Except when I’m not.
I’m so not. Every single day.
I’m hanging on barely both literally and figuratively, and I think it’s only a matter of time. Until mine runs out. Runs empty. Is bled fully dry.
I am a luxury of absence.
I am a furious failure of potential unrealized.
I am without question the very worst of the best of love.
And I am empty.
Hanging on ever clearly but barely.
It’s late at night.
I bet you would not choose me.
You would not choose me.
You do not.
March 11, 2020