When I pictured your head rolling across the floor like it's been held in a jar of purified water and kept in the back of a Rolls Royce but you're still so this is all an illusion.
There is this agglomeration that builds up beneath my rib cage when I'm thinking back of you. All this rubbish I'm hearing in my head and you're not answering your phone.
You know how this makes me feel. So I churn
And I look up at the buildings whilst I cry and yes sister, they're seeming much taller than the streams of my tears that have ran down my cheeks, for you.
These alignments I succumb by farther a crude magnitude on my stomach; it churns again and my face crinkles up.
As it's tries to shrink itself and get everything out that exists underneath it as loss about dirt, soil and purity for the scrunch. So I scrunch up my nose and turn out my cheeks, and watching myself crying is less entertaining than it usually is.
This is real sorrow, my sadness dressed a wreck upon question, and doubt. Questions I ask myself, questions you can't answer because I can't reach you, I thought - anymore.
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