(no subject)
I sometimes think about the days, when I was young, not very brave, and I sat next to Ross, on a bench in a park, like a kitten gaurding her food. I was naive and always burnt, like the deadness exuded from the tip of a lamp post, and the dissapointed buzz from the insects looking for day, never really rubbed me in the wrong way. I sometimes think, when we were lying in my bed, innocent and telling each other our stories of traveling around in circles, teenage anxieties and battles, that was what a poet would colorfully paint as love. I sometimes think that you got away, as I remember you so well, so famous to me, your heart a legend, your heart a legend. You were the one who got away, but I still remember you so fondly.