rooftop scenes, cigarette in your hand, bottle of wine at my feet. you stand up, agitated, alive with thought.
"we hide these things, everything! we pretend to not be feeling anything, we try not to worry about ecosystems dying and bombs going off. we know the answers were given aren't answers and so we try not to ask the questions! and I'm drunk NOW and i see NOW how ridiculous it is that tomorrow morning I'll do the same, i'll accept my powerlessness faced with the world and i'll shy away from the thought that we connected, that i felt something, because when we stand on the ground, sober, and think rationally then the idea that we'd tie ourselves to each other is scary because we'd rather fail alone [...]"

Throw that bottle of red wine off the roof, smash it into the empty lot across the street.

I knew I wouldn't cut my feet on the glass going back down the stairs, but I sat alone on the rooftop when you went, my heart racing for a moment each time the wind howled and the doors to the empty elevator shaft slammed.

Do I get points for cool, for suffering through the night with icy limbs, for slipping, sliding, gliding on. Am I just this frigid all the time, only now feeling it as the physical sensation of a warm winter night, snow melting against the heat of my body but still sending chills down my spine as it lands between my neck and my collar?  

But run on sentences are alright, I've been taught, as long as they serve an end, form dicated by function. No, instead I go on and on and on my thoughts disjointed, leading nowhere. Life lessons I never learnt in grammar school seem to haunt me.

But run on sentences are alright, I've been taught, as long as they serve an end, form dicated by function. No, instead I go on and on and on my thoughts disjointed, leading nowhere. Life lessons I never learnt in grammar school seem to haunt me.