through these paper thin walls i can hear the ticking of my brother's fan. a constant sound that i wish i couldn't hear. but it sounds a little bit like water dribbling on my window right at the end of the storm. and i am enraged with anger because all i want is the real thing. i'm sick of all this fake ****; it's reminding me too much of the people around me. but that's my own fault.
the pattern of the clicking sounds so **** natural. kind of like the way your lies fell out of your mouth like a waterfall-- rushing and your water (or words) were trying so hard to pull me under.  i think it worked. what i'm trying to get at is i miss the real thing. i still want you to touch me even if it is with those cold, harsh waters.
i feel like i haven't felt a splash of cool water on my face in months. and maybe i haven't. we were at our peak in the worst of the winter and it seemed like everything between us just froze. and with the fragile touch of your brutal hands,, you broke everything.

maybe if we're lucky when the sun comes out everything will melt and something will flow between us again.