My skin burns where you last touched it. Pessimism weighs heavily on us like the clouds growing darker outside. We all close doors to tell secrets we want everyone to know.
My jealousy turns to rage turns back to jealousy again. I refuse to live like this but don't know any other way to survive. I concoct plans, solutions and serums but you don't answer my pleads, instead you change the subject. Chills course my skin, caffeine unsoothes anything formerly sootheable.
Wasn't it nice when I just sweltered in your sheets? When everything was fresh, fraiche even?
Now I scribble fervently, I shake and want to scream but I am intent on listening, hoping, wishing to hear your footsteps, for the door to turn, but no I am left with my mania.
This mania, these words, the most extreme interpretation of tiny drops of emotion find an outlet for the screams, albeit silently. This outlet finds a truth for the serum, a real problem for the solution and those bated breaths continue to breathe life into a reckless romantic life form that thought it couldn't survive.
And there go those footsteps.............