i look at your photo and it makes me want to puke
because you're
feeling a sickness in my bones
see i was never one to shy away from the art
of making a mistake
because i'd never come across anything that made me look back
that made me really look back
with this tiny seed called regret, a sickness that starts in the deepest, oldest corner of my brain and branches out starting with my tendons and legaments
slow reactions to fast past dramas
how could i ever say your name again without first wanting the affection that came before the stunted replay versions of the passion that
stupid coffee dates where we speak over a canopy of half memories, that the sunlight never penetrates
