i can't even say the word.
my books fuckin depress me.
this town depresses me.
this half-drunk glass of warm milk on my desk
these stacks of papers written with mess
this bed that's empty and disheveled
these unfamiliar hands that don't fit the curve of my
face --
the hot sun that makes my neck sweat in the morning
the thought of so many hours wasted
when we're not imagining inventions, comparing dreams
or just lying, stupid, but together --
dePRESSes me.
if imagining you gone makes me cry so hard i gasp for breath---
then isn't this _ _ _ _?