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Iâve been writing a lot or at least Iâve been trying to. I think itâs because youâve been doing the same but my output doesnât compare to words so eloquently pieced together. I canât translate the input in the first place: Iâll pick up a pen and force a soliloquy of fragmented words mixed with the intention of cryptic feelings in poor penmanship and contrived ballpoint ink.
Iâll drive down the all too familiar roads and highways with you in the passenger seat until our car runs out of gas. I know if weâre together, weâll never find a home and thatâs exactly what weâre never looking for: not in New England, and not anywhere.
Iâll feel sequestered for the rest of my life
because I donât know any better,
until youâll come around again
with words that make me feel some kind of worth.
you'll decide to grow up, but Iâm inherently going in reverse.