my skin melts with the heater on high, hi.
how are you? followed by other questions i do not care for. four.
days since i’ve cried. that’s got to be a new record for my eyes. i.
am incapable of spending another minute looking out of this window and letting my mind convince me that i am destined to be depressed for the rest of my life. i’ve
got some things to do, i’m not sure what - i’m not sure where but you can grab my ring finger or grasp my arm. i’m
certain my skin would step melting from your touch and maybe my head would be clearer than the weather just from the friction we could create. eight.
hours since you have left, gone to work. i want to write you a postcard but i live here with you. we sleep in the same bed but i don’t think you see my skin.