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halloween '07.

in lamens terms, we played a game of tug-o-war, where you drew me a conspicuous line to cross into one nonexistent cause. and while the tension of pulling and tugging on the rope consequently left burns on the palms of my hands, my heart desperately pulsated on the palms of yours.

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singular claypot.

build me up with your hands
i am yours to mold.

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cotton mouth.

hello feelings.
i miss the days
spent just drawing you out.
i miss the dependence on
but mostly,
i miss the Relief that followed
because now,
my tongue is swollen from the Silence.

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