Our conversations are melodic with hint a of chaos, I haven’t seen you in months but we don’t skip a beat.

Poetry flows out of everything you say, you’re naive even though you’ve done so much.

I’m sitting Indian style on my bed, my back is bare and my thoughts are drifting in and out.

I’m a firm believer that this means more to me than it does to you. I’m lazy and reclusive but my imagination is always with you.

The only thing bringing me back to reality is my reflection in the dirty mirror. Imperfection reminds me of the reason I’m here, in the current state that I find myself.

Geography and late night adventures to no where will never get me farther from myself. I find my only getaway is under the covers of my undersized bed.

I sleep in the fetal position and dream of things darker than a midnight stroll on a country road.

Where are you? Are you thinking of me?