Short Story 7

This is it, we’re getting bombed with how you won’t tell me your problems and I swear I wouldn’t solve them but I’d listen, they’d resolve and we’d be happy. I’m imagining some city where it rains a thousand days out of the decade and the sharp shape that your tight outline would make against a window lit by streetlamps for the walkers down below. And when you go (we know you’ll go) – then please don’t call me when you’re home and please please please leave me alone. 

~ by perfectionatrix on August 23, 2012.

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