An overwhelming sense, like water boiling up to the edge of a pot.
Wondering about everything and nothing but so much of nothing
Blank stares glazed past yours, what you don’t know is I can see right through you
Right past all these promises and stories starting with maybe one day
Maybe one day you can sit on your ass and I could start to tell you stories that begin in the past
That time you…
That time you
That time you
I can’t even begin to think about where it starts to when it ends.
I used to want to write you a book of stories.
You know me, always with a story.
My history as you would call it
But now I know
I know that a story won’t be enough
I know no story has enough to make it better
To force apologies or feeling out of you was never effective for me or you
To settle into what is