We could kiss on the street, but it’d be too romantic. I’d say you should leave but you’re no good with semantics. One-handed you gave me the keys to your apartment so I could unlock it much farther than your heart could. There I stood, in the rain with no umbrella. I saw some on your porch, but you decided to just sell them instead of giving them to your undecided “best friend.” I left then, deciding it must all end. It’s pretend, the way we run in circles. Pretending that there’s meaning to our madness (or sadness). We had it, once, a thousand days ago. The sickness, worth nothing more than vertigo. Now I must go away from this anxiety and piety from priests who can’t see inside of me. Say goodbye to me, we’re gone now from this dilapidated ghost town. We’re no more found than we were a thousand days ago.





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