Everything is mediocre, it can so easily just “be”. Everything can so easily just float, like it has no purpose, no direction, it just “is”.
I don’t want to shuffle through my life. Dreaming of well spent days, now wasted memories. Thinking up words to place into phrases that will make him hold onto the way our fingers locked on that wet December night. The way we held onto each other’s stories like they were our own heartbeats. With every laugh and every shy smile, how we fell; fell deeper and deeper into our own tortured little fates.
We are forever twisted. Tied and held down by the words we’ll never say.
Everything is too dangerous. But nothing? Nothing hurts.