(no subject)
i think its funny that the lines in our hands fall like lines in the trees with no real begining or end. and so hands, like trees, can be cut down and silenced one by one until theres nothing left to stand ground. "i think youre great," she says. "i think youre great, but youre too much for me," she says and walks away. and on that note, he plays a song that sings, sharp and flat inside his head. he has seen her kind before, the kind who sit crying in their rooms because theyre afraid that someone knows that they are sitting crying in their rooms. and though daisies once bloomed inside her hair, her head is now sterile and plain. and he moves on because he knows he has to. and she moves on because she knows she doesnt. and flowers yield to beautiful falling pieces of dust.