The life of a heartache
The smell of the air is a qixite breeze blown hot from the fan of my computer but cool when reaches me.
Yet it holds nothing but that experience.
But the touch of a pen wells tears to my eyes, the winging of my heart.
A futile effort to try to refute these memories is to test the colour of the pen if it would match her phone number.
The match is perfect down to the curves I scribble so similar.
That is stupid
This is insane
the only things I have worth thinking about is about revolution and her.
Though I try not to think about her as much as possible, but my heart pinches still against all my best efforts.
How far I have regressed in hopes that this fluctuation would go away, but to no avail the memories are an anchor to something that I cannot fully explain.
Communism being something worth dreaming about, memories of her something in the dream to experience for.
I have not remembered so many dreams at night for so long.
And still she kisse me in them
How could I ever explain that?
The smell of the air is a qixite breeze blown hot from the fan of my computer but cool when reaches me.
Yet it holds nothing but that experience.
But the touch of a pen wells tears to my eyes, the winging of my heart.
A futile effort to try to refute these memories is to test the colour of the pen if it would match her phone number.
The match is perfect down to the curves I scribble so similar.
That is stupid
This is insane
the only things I have worth thinking about is about revolution and her.
Though I try not to think about her as much as possible, but my heart pinches still against all my best efforts.
How far I have regressed in hopes that this fluctuation would go away, but to no avail the memories are an anchor to something that I cannot fully explain.
Communism being something worth dreaming about, memories of her something in the dream to experience for.
I have not remembered so many dreams at night for so long.
And still she kisse me in them
How could I ever explain that?