Like lightening in your heart, an soupçon that seems to burn hot, you’re hanging on a thread that’s bound to drop.
As the curator of your core, an indicatively secure position, I’m waiting on the floor in my footprints.
A sordid smile, arms gravely outstretched. I warned you. You don’t know better. Don’t touch me. I’ll catch you. I can’t do this anymore. Let me help you. No problem. Again and again.
Beyond my control, something natural - intrinsic - I aim for silence, you aim for words.
Words can never make up for what you do.
-johnkennick