a mother watches her son play on the swing set as she writes her suicide note: "I'm sorry I did this to you, life, I mean"

the leaves that dangle off the trees
but don't touch the ground
is almost like
the way our hands are close
but never actually touch

our blood freezes from neglect of another's warm touch
we need someone to trace their fingers diligently along our back, creating goosebumps
(though these goosebumps to us represent every flaw that may cause you to run away tonight)
but
laying there with someone's skin
that's just what we need
we don't want to wait around
while you romance worthless time with other girls
kiss us hard
but like, do it gently
show us you're the best thing to ever happen
we want to be able to pick up the phone and be told that we did good
(well you did good)