not last night

tossing turning left right
hot sweat trickles down

hair sticks to skin
delirious so damp so hazy

so many dreams
broken
lost
forgotten

pain head stomach pains
food churns juices bubble
lights flash I scream
come out stop it

need mother need time
need you no why
you ahead of me

come back

please

Can't Rant

I know it's not love. But what it is is not important. Thing is, it is. You're beautiful. I wish you knew. It's nice to talk to you. Sometimes. Sometimes. It's nice that you're nice. Yes, you're lovely. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm romanticizing who are you. Mixing the concept of "you" with so much. The transient beauty of snowflakes. So elusive, so silly. And the smell of sunshine. So golden, so warm. Just building up a construct of who you are. And falling so deeply in middle-school-infatuation with it. I don't know if it's real. I don't know if you're real. But what you are is not important. Thing is, you are. Yes, you are.


In case you were wondering: No, this post is not about you.