Tuesday, June 22, 2010

innards and all that.

It hurts my insides sometimes. Radiating from a ball in my stomach as the butterflies sour.

Canned sound of days past and short little clips of who we were weeks ago and years ago. I shuffled through mounds of other people's photos (OPP??) yesterday between shaded eyes and dewy skin and conversing in topics that make sense or lead towards sense-making. My palms are sweaty now. I'm a mess. But only sometimes. And I miss people. But only sometimes. And I'm not there. But only sometimes.

Maybe you bring it out in me, or maybe I just look for an excuse. I dunno. In general, it feels good inside.


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