now I gotta pretend
to not want to call or text you.
as my arm twitches,
my anxiety is killing me,
and my doctor tells me I'm dying.
so it goes, super duper.
I fall slower
than water,
but I like this plunge,
and I throw my shoes
out the window on the highway south.
I wish I didn't like you,
and I wish I didn't wonder
how butterflies fly in the rain,
but I do.
later, listening to Bob Dylan
and jerking off,
nostalgia is a weird feeling.
if I had a soul
and that soul had a room,
it'd be messy
to say the least.