I would’ve been with you forever.
But somehow you made forever
seem like only a few
very important,
almost TOO important,
moments; all that matters.
I felt,
If I don’t make RIGHT NOW
fucking perfect
there’s no goddamn way
tomorrow or
the next day or
the next day or
the next day
will even count.
But the next day always came,
and that pressing weight of
“is everything fucking PERFECT?”
came back around.
Maybe I tried too hard.
Maybe you didn’t try hard enough.
Either way,
the next day will always come, and
here
I
am.
Also, I’m fucking insane.
Did I ever mention that,
drunk and wrapped up in the sheets
at three in the morning?
See you in the morning, baby.




