the way he spoke held a disenchanted air, that we breathed, wading in deep pools of nonchalance. he spoke of himself like he were nothing. his words seemed so sure of themselves, a world without them felt natural. and the feeling of uneasiness set after; they were hypocritical after all.
his disinterest in my earnest endearment only offset the disenchantment as he spilled half-honest lies onto the grass. the beams of sunlight illuminate us both, and i wonder how i could ever be mistaken. he is an oxymoron: a bright fool.
YOU ARE READING
𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌
Poetrystatic stat·ic ˈstat-ik. adjective characterized by a lack of movement or change trigger warning: read at your own risk! | just an unnecessarily long collection of me trying to get over my feelings
