"Maybe it's the way his eye catches, yours across the hall or the way the oldest lead of that ancient tree in autumn detaches, itself from its impermanent home, leaving in display a false sense of security slipping through the vivid cracks meant to break your mothers back, and out the pockets of your tattered worn out jeans filled with untrue lines and verses of your favorite songs beyond doubt, you keep him crumbled up between the seams of horribly stocked fabric where his name lies within your mothers words and ribbons you drapes I between screams, turning promises into curses much to your surprise. Maybe it's the way it's 3AM and you're screaming out in between sobs for someone who never cared
-A.E.G.H
