realish.

Sketching the edges of things, hinting lightly. My arguments are tired, the warped psychology of psychology; I work too much. I miss people. I miss drugs, cigarettes, all-night mania, crashing euphoria, the blissful awareness that I can be a mess and not hurt anyone, all those anyones kept at arm’s length. Myself anonymous. Foreign places. Culture shock. Helpless laughter.

You are so close, I breathe so light. I crave something higher than what I am. I crave to be what you are, yet I lash out like a caged thing. Forgive me, love.

I have not sinned enough.