the mean reds

its the things you do when you're alone that ground you. folded up to my knees, phone pressed to my forehead. and sighs. the lights are on; i don't have to keep myself from falling apart. when you have nothing its easiest just to sit and exist on your own terms. leveling out, but you could still catch me imagining you're here. terrified because i've already forgotten so much of you. like catching the sent of kindergarten classrooms, you're familiar but distant. the prospect of being in range of your energy excites my bones and panics my heart. there is a theory to document, but even i know it grows too complex in all its simplicity. isn't it a lovely fiction to dream the anticipation might be the end of you too?

tell me what i have to do to make this right.