A drawn curtain, courtesy pamphlets, out dated novels and tarnish on my desk lamp. A stomach full of fruit fried up from the sun and starch from the dirt. My aching legs coincide with an aching mind. These old feelings from what I left behind. Flirtatiously arduous texts fill the time, time, time. The time between destinations. Feelings of suprise at the mutual attraction, and anticipation to see what's next. A familiar disgust. Second rate bergamot infusion from a leaky pot, a snoring compadre on the verge of abandonment "communication breakdown, it's always the same". Why is it that I can't stop thinking about you? Why is it that I'm so stuck on the rest of you?
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