Six thirty eight,
chaos on the radio,
nothing better to do
than to be thinking of you.
Eyes caught on the weather outside
driving to camp,
no nerves, I'm blagging,

I always get these pangs,
machetes to the brain
whenever centered in a storm of change,
under a heavy sky, distant and strange.

I imagine sinking in coffee,
burnt and over-sugared,
loosening off that close-to-death lasso,
faking wellness, thinking of you.

It's a thing I do,
when I'm feeling lost,
you and I,
beside sea, huddled under dark sky.

And I know we're years away
from where we were,
I know 'togetherness' swallowed us whole
but there'll always be a hole.

You said I was infatuated.
I said you were a prick.
You meant it,
I meant it.

And life rolled away from toxicity -
harmony struck for me
and you too, I hope,
away from where those broken souls elope.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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