When your words hit the breaks and my words hit the gas, I learned, once and for all, the power of g force.
I'm developing wine stains in all the holes that you took when you picked up the schedule of your locational development and left.
Yielding to the unsubstantiated evidence that I have backed up on my extra extra hard-drive, filled with illegal movies, a spoken word piece, and you, it seems too far past put together for me to become another linked up, cracked out, picked apart third-grade diary filled with secrets and under-developed hormones.
In Shakespearean terms, this is a tragedy, but I still find it all rather comical when my sight has been blurred by the warmth in your smoke and the moisture that is gathering, right now, as you read this, on your palms.
A little bird told me you missed me. What have you got to say for yourself?
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