your sweet talk sits in the never dying foundation of the fake plant in the corner of my room and as i glance at it, it seems like it has grown there itself.
boat engines purring outside, where you are, somewhere, i listen and somehow it reassures me. maybe you have the same itching feeling in your chest and you are getting a fix from some sort of memory, as i am. does it make the itching worse for you too? scrounging around for some sort of temporary occupation, but i know these played out memories and my mind slipping into fantasies would have absolutely nothing on feeling your soft hands in my anxious ones right now.
as long as we are incapable of adjusting the distance when it gets to be too much, my mind will continue to be one of pathetic attempts of emulating your presence.