I’m standing outside of the airport, trying to justify being the kind of person who shows up at an airport in a dramatic fashion.
I never would have left.
I think about the things we “need” as human beings a lot for someone who pretends to be chill and nonchalant.
I wish I could write something poetic about us.
Take chances. Believe that things can work out. Even if they don’t, at least you tried.
I don’t consider my life poetic but if I did, this would be the opening stanza.
We both had to get new sheets after that summer because they were all stained with fruit juice, wine, sweat, and summer could’ve/would’ve/should’ves.
If you can’t handle the truth, you can’t handle me.
It’s not something you could ever swallow, is it?
Because you have a dog who has so much life left to be lived.