No Google alerts, we only talk on birthdays.
I was there for your worse days. You just recycled my feelings as if we met on Earth day.
I use to get text letting me know you made it home safe. When you blow out the candles now do you still think of me?
Best of wishes on whatever comes after me. When it came to everything that was magic about us we lacked consistency.
Was it an illusion all Fall?
I swear we were deep in it…
What’s the trick to it all?
I realize why the reality of us could never really be. Love and what we decide to do with it is just one big epiphany.
I know you feel alone and you’re getting use to it. A lot of that is because when it comes to love I’m not who I use to be.
When it comes to love are we in it like we use to be?
I’m willing to go to the deep end. Tell me when it comes to emotions will you drown or do you know how to swim?
We built this house of glass with no chairs so we scream when instead we should reflect and have a seat.
I’ve seen firsthand how you move when you cold hearted. I need to witness how you handle the heat.
Messages unsent by sender on my Instagram. I swear it’s okay to let me know you care.
I communicate what I need, I’m well aware that I’m rare. Be with me in this moment. Be well aware that we here. When you really in love you don’t hear the voices in the background, it’s like nothing else is there.
Once that temperature changes everything tends to fade. You can blame on the Sun or the rainy days.
Summer in February, she don’t know how to feel.
She going to say “Take me to the lake” but she talking to everybody.
By the time March gets here she thinking of vacations. She thinking she need space again.
Getting so high to balance out these lows. You would think I was a Rocketman.
This atmosphere isn’t conducive for deep breaths of oxygen
I know why you have to leave. Because staying makes you feel too vulnerable.
She going to post about how doing the same hellos over and over again gets traumatizing, so she’s mastered the art of goodbye.
Summer in February. She’s mastered the art of goodbye
The way she walks away is a masterpiece.