I'm working on it, I swear, I'm working on it. I told you that I tried and you thanked me. You thanked me, what the fuck. I wonder sometimes if I miss you because I love you or because you were comfortable; because you're a habit that I don't want to give up, each text another drag to a recovering addict.
It's like a drug, an innate need, an unquenchable thirst; but I wish you were my sun instead, that gives, not steals.
My similes or metaphors - I've temporarily blanked out on the rules - are terrible, which means it's late. And I have Model UN in the morning, early.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment