Sometimes a fear of things unknown, of things I simply don't know how to handle, though you know how I hate to admit it. And you and all yr well-meant promises that prove too tough for you to keep, and the things we plug ourselves into, to forget for a moment the speed at which the earth spins beneath our feet.
I have only stinging words, and you have only stinging spoonfuls of the recurring past.
Basil leaves under the sun on cooler days. Grimy toes shoving at the mud. Crates full of all the secrets we lug around from home to home and only keep closed tight.
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