minus all additions.

you're a problem and i'm a solution but who's to know when i'm calcul(us/ating) and you're ind(ices/ecent) and we're both unmatched mismatched outmatched.

+

what i've done:

i'm sick of getting bruised because i climb trees too high to fall off safely. i'm tired of having to weave through your forests of meaning, where new species spawn like fireflies and pollution-covered star-wishes. it's getting me down that i can't make myself say things straight with you, when we're supposed to be honest, because it's in the bible and it's in the things you pledge in secret with each new introduction.

i'm giving up coming online to see your status as busy. i'm sacrificing the intellectual conversations we have when we both have too much time and too little in common to talk about anything but the air and the songs it plays when it's whistled through a poet's hollow flute-heart.

we were both just shades of outcasts and dreamers, flames that burn themselves to the ground. you were blue and burned brightest before being blotted out; i was exaggerated exacerbated exasperated, yellow and dabs of orange that didn't even flare.

-

what i'm doing;

i'm ignoring you for now. i'm going to stop thinking about you halfway to bedtime when my clock ticks away the seconds: the second time i tripped over my tongue and my [achilles'] heels, the second time you made me feel like my words were just the wind in the willows that whispers nothing at all, the second time i ate ice cream and couldn't finish it. i'm going to stop breathing if it means it'll stop me from being too many lung-contractions and too few heartbeats.

i'm all disconnected discombobulated dissatisfied and i'm lying in a heap, because that's the only way you'll see everything inside, and maybe be tempted to do the same.

-

what i'll do;

it's getting too hard to talk to you, but i hope shouting isn't as bad.

because when i-scream, your ears would look so beautiful bruised.

+

sometimes, i can't stand you. sometimes, i just want to stand with you.