From the drop to the thud
Love is fluid and definitionless, I think, as i try to touch your knees. Like capturing you in my and old favorite song will make you more real, if not more permanent. Are you awake? And there is no reply. So I keep holding on. Love is a piano dropped from a four story window and you were at the wrong place, at the wrong time, I think as I try to sleep without contact, thinking so this is what it feels like to be you and you and you.
As I sleep, I dream of conversations in which I assured you and you and you that he and she and he meant nothing. And, I’m sorry.