All I do is repeat pretty words by people with minds much more beautiful than mine in ways that are far less articulate. All I am good for is second rate bargain bins and what not to do’s. All I can be is this person with their fingers on the keys typing out emotions that don’t quite click.
I wonder if the past dies as silently as the future. The words are still there. The smell fades pretty quickly. The taste and look of you aren’t far behind. Memories betray us like the sun will one day. Burn me as I touch it’s face because I could not comprehend the heat that comes from something so far away.
Don’t ask me to explain myself, I’ll just let you down.
Everything in life is only seen through memories of people who tell stories better than me. All I can do is repeat those pretty words. All I am good for is swimming in the tears that pool along the bottom of your eyes. This all makes sense. Don’t worry, it will all make sense.