March 24, 2012

My pocket knife was on the table in front of me, but I’m so sick of repeating myself. I felt it in my mind, across my body but I stood up and walked out the door instead. T-shirt in 40 degrees, my arm turned deep purple, jacket in 40 degrees. I listen to the Beatles because I know you like that band. I really do want to hold your hand again. The water curls on the rocks. Soft washing and loud sounds. I’ve always been such a fool for it. A liquid that won’t let you touch me like you did that night.

Sleep in the sun, before it’s gone, because it won’t stay, because it’s beautiful.

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