How Long?

Rhetorical in a sense — since I know my intentions — falling short of premonition. Although I stumble upon my own diction. Discombobulated, just as you are. Infatuated, just as you may be. May-may bring spring, but I’ve found a calm and warm-driven oxygen tank through your exhales. May our encounters never tank. Can’t leave me Rose. How long before I stop embodying sweetness in my words? The loudest of my desires are never heard. Instead, I project them through this medium at large for you to see. Oh how I feel so small in your digital presence. Soil, you plant until you’re spoiled with internal sunlight. I learned that I won’t live forever — that my exhales will venture off into the heavens. Heaven sent, send my words from above. But they won’t take these words from me. Take it as it reads, I want to leave my words with you.

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