That familiar tingle, the comfort of intoxication, countless bottles lined up and I want you to try this one, I need a writeup on it, but it's all milky and gross. You come back to it later, when flavor matters less; you are predictable in your carelessness, yet. He calls it bronchitis, but you insist it is merely a cold stuck in your lungs and rue your lack of cigarette paper. Summer sinks its teeth in the city, finally you can rest in its reassurance.
Once again at the train station, once again regretful departure tenderness and you know you adore separation more than togetherness. The searing pain of airports more a comfort than all the hours of regularities combined. We lay in the park, sweating under a summer sun, and I thought this moment is better than anything we can create willfully. But it is summer yet, and you do not worry, you do not know how.
Everyone knows
You're gonna get hurt.
But at least
You'll get hurt
trying.
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