Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Get Old Or Die

Maybe there are promises that I haven't kept. Could be that I've got dreams, undreamed so far. I spend time prying open my heart, little by little. Then she leaves and it's busted into a million little pieces. Again.

Me? Turns out I'm the confessor. The only one I can tell doesn't have time to listen.

Doesn't much matter. I seem to have lost the ability to speak when she's around.


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