I don't hurt so hard today. a weak ache, after a bad break, some anesthetic, and a band aid. or some time, for god's sake. I welcome the pain, and play in pleasure of being, but I miss the warm summer rain and the caramel kiss of seeing. a smile, just one. was enough, are you still smiling, or are you done? I know I haven't the will. an old friend has words, like vague actions or verbs, a fraction backwards but accurate to the core. and you were that someone, and you, though not true, were far more frequently fun. with much less to do. you pulled out the pebble, that stopped my heart, and though I'm now able, I don't like this part. a limerick, with lime, how cluttered and cliche, yet divine, and sublime, though written in dismay. though a thousand things I think I speak not one nor three things think me weak until I cease this therapeutic thought that makes things be the way they ought. does it make sense yet, for me to write away my thoughts, to store them here, for space unbought, and race back to a life I swore I dont want. This space degrades but never rots, much like my lost and wandering plot, toward places far away and lost, though never quite untouchable.