Why don’t you be the artist
And make me out of clay?
Oh, why don’t you be the writer
And decide the words I say?

Images. A bus stop. A street light. Flashing strobe-like apparatus. Sentinel being watching for eternity. A smile. A laugh. A crack of thunder and the blur of electric branches reaching down like the hand of a god long forgotten by us.

I know there were days I forgot to say I love you. And I spaced out the days where I paid compliments. A balcony overlooking the moss sea of a forest greenery. I tried to figure shit out in the past, and I tried to keep it to myself. And maybe that’s my fault. And maybe it’s no one’s fault. And maybe I never changed. But there are days I don’t recognize the face staring back at me.

I find myself thinking about you daily. And I wonder if you’re thinking about me in the same way. Your smile cuts me. Your thoughtfulness outmatches any I’ve known before.

And if you’re reading this and confused which paragraph is about you, there is nothing I can do for you but bide my time until the clarity hits you.

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