A dance.
Fumbling, my own two--
feet.
Impossibly, irrevocably so far down my throat when I'm around
I can't say what I mean so I say what I--
don't.
The last thing I--
want.
A breath, a pause, I wait too long before I--
Leave.
Do you sigh when I go?
Is the room empty or just less--
crowded?
-J
This is for someone I liked far too much, and couldn't read at all. I used the scattered and likely hellish massacre of all things punctuationally proper to hopefully convey exactly the kind of halting uncertainty I felt in this particular somebody's presence. Hopefully it works and doesn't just come across as hipster-pretentious.
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