so full of the superficial; the third of three letters


The feelings you give me do not equate for the amount of eventual pain I will experience in the near future, when truth becomes inevitable: you will never pick me.  Tonight, you make me feel the way I do always: nervous, chattery, and slightly succumbing to your controlled, calm being.  You know what you want, but that isn’t me, I’m guessing.  So I’m telling you now: you cannot just do these things and get away with it.

I was bound to get hurt in the process and leave empty-handed. So I dwell in your presence as the evening dies down because forever is misty as of now: the smog of uncertainty does not do well to the future I’m hoping to have.


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