maybe we just ain’t meant to be something / maybe we are
Autumnal air, shrouded views. I look down below from the seventeenth floor, the wind biting harder than it was yesterday morning. Rosy cheeks, Lolita lips. This state of longing consumed the better half of my night. Conversations across the Pacific that bleed into a sorrowed happiness forever molding the base of my being,
They say America is dying from loneliness — and for a moment there, so was I.