How many nostalgic nights will I have to spend on a warped floor to realize you are to hollow to be filled
you make negligence feel like an oak door and my hands have become splinters
if you scream your apologies into satin finish long enough the creaks and groans of the door begin to sound like "sorry"
I hope you don't use coasters on your coffee table; the imprints your mug leave can translate to the ones you left on me