How much easier it is to let it slide, to ignore the signs, to push the truth away. How much harder it is to watch the color leave someone’s face as they fade.
the calendar's a palindrome: in a glitching cul de sac of lost culture: tide laps against the rim: thought coursing repeatedly and wearing down the ridge: the little plastic castle is a surprise every time
I’m not so sick. And I don’t really want to feel good when it comes back around. It’s not much fun when I 180. I’m so sorry most all of the time. I miss your time with me.