Your name’s ingrained like Jonah in belly skin. There’s no script, or coercing, and I wish I’d remember more context, solid sentences, that tone resonated for days. But it doesn’t. And worst is to wake up, wonder if we meant any of it. Maybe we didn’t?
To call is the only thing better than feeling your pulse through t-shirt chest, super warm breath, stubble select. So I waste minutes; I have 7 left.
You wish other people had what we have. But what, concurrently, is that? Are we lucky or doltish? Will anything end how we predict?
I guess this is why taking notes in lectures is, like, recommended. Several of my organs would question if what I want is important. I know you’d say that it is. Feels selfish. Biased. I talk about tactics. My guilt is ten Hail Marys from alkaline. I’m basically acid. And that’s how June sits.