Tell me please, when does this get old? Rescuing me like this. Showing up when least expected and having just the right thing to say, just the right mix of emotion and distance. I looked between the mattress and the floor and I faced my fears unaided. But in my weakness now, I allow the outside aide, acquiesce to your version of me. When do I not just open up like a naive flower each time that magick dust of memory and muse is scattered in the air above me?
Regret won't find me until tomorrow. For now at least, I am safe from him.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment