Receding thoughts that we emulate,
like conversationalists,
disastrous neurosis, insofar we loathe compromised,
with morning sex and daydreams of regress.
The scenarios once made up,
once gave celebrity status to our recent attachments,
find it on the notch of our bedframe,
as a reminder, that nothing last longer than the salutations of the actual moment,
time slows down when we recollect a time it once happened,
we can harness the once felt memory,
and emotions,
experience is drawn further away from our memory,
and there’s room for change,
and emotion, motionless,
we may feel,
and only wholesome thoughts come into play,
we’re not so much dismissed by the inconclusive, but the entrenched factors,
that smokey rooms entail,
when we’re not physically there,
just text me when you get home,
and I’ll trust myself to not,
break the sentences with misspelled cursed words,
I’ll send you a thank you and a nice to know that you still think I’m the best you had.


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