I used to fancy myself a poet.


As if I’ve melted so many times before, and the shadow following me begs for an instance of recognition.  I’ve waited so long for this and its better than any way you just, oh just… Your very first kiss can’t compare to this, the first time between her thighs couldn’t surprise me more than the last time I said goodbye to you. You wish for remorse? I’m not sorry for anything I’ve caused or anything I’ve felt.  Sorry is a thing of the past and the new fad, let’s call it the very few regrets I’ve ever had. You slip beneath every inch of skin and the best part can only be the fact you look at me as if I’m not noticing. The pace at which our hearts race could only be compared to an out of control train heading towards the very delicate rain we call an explosion. You stare and stare as if willing for me to just be there and you’re blind by the fact, the very false opinion that, if you hit rewind it’s like it never happened. Half choice and half acceptance can never be followed by regret he said, she said, he read or maybe instead, it was all made up.

 

It’s been much too long.

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