I read a story about a woman who died of grief.
I am worried about what you call love.
In the mornings I forget where I am and in the night, I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Sometimes being around you is like pressing on pressure points until I think I will pass out.
I like it.
We say we, but what we really mean is I. And we say need but what we really mean is want.
I keep different glass jars for ever day of the week.
You said I smelled like sweet sadness. I started eating honey because of it.
I get lost while you drive. I never know where we are. I never mind.
People keep on prescribing their own problems to other people so they don’t feel alone in their condition. But the truth is, that’s all there is anyway.
I wish I would stop wishing.