I'm sleeping in your hoodie because I don't want you to be mad at me, even though I understand why you are. And I'm running to my words, who've failed me just this once, to try and apologize to you. I'm very small tonight, swimming in the sweatshirt sea of you while fearing that I've popped our balloon and no amount of hot air apologizes will lift it off the ground. Would you forgive a rightly aimed shell of anger when you know I didn't understand even if you don't because I know the shock of pain takes so long to tear down. If the day is set to be gray, does the moon warn the sun to put on a sweatshirt, direct rain down a face?