Unfortunately, I am relapsing.
He reminds me of you constantly and I'm trying to stuff you into various crevices until I can decide what to do with you. A more permanent arrangement. But it's like a cruel joke and everybody's laughing. Including me (just that my laughter is laced with bitter, sarcastic "haw-haw"s).
I mean, sure, you make for good art. But so do flowers. Could we trade you in for more flowers, please?
I don't even know what this feeling is anymore. It's like an ache with chilli on the side. It's mostly under the radar and it's kinda that pastel peach colour that everyone doesn't notice until someone wears it as a lipstick colour ("dear lady, please reconsider the choices you have made to your face"). It's irrational and discombobulating. It's origins are unknown and its familial background has been classified "complicated". But all these uncertainties aside, the only real question I want answered is "when will you go away?" ;_; How about now.
Oh, come to me, sweet dawning season. The old has gone, the new has come.
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