Hot sheets, sweating blankets.
Throw away the key,
forget the pillows.
Music somewhere in the back,
phone buzzing away.
But all I feel is you.
All I see is you.
I reach out to touch
you, and get a no.
I look up at you,
and suddenly,
I know.
I cry, at how good
it is. I nearly sob,
at how I've missed
this.
I want to touch you
the way you touch me.
But nothing is
that good, nothing
ever lasts.
I feel your skin beneath
my own, and I cry out.
You fade. You always
fade. You are
intangible, a ghost.
No, not a ghost.
A memory,
a waking nightmare.
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"She's on a hunger strike
for the ones who won't make it for dinner..."
I am the last of the American girls.
Message me if you are, too.
Last of the American girls: 7
for the ones who won't make it for dinner..."
I am the last of the American girls.
Message me if you are, too.
Last of the American girls: 7