I have this condition where I
walk into an empty room and
expect life to burst from the
very foundations. It's not very
funny, or interesting since
every season has its empty
rooms and highways, which
fill up with snow, rain, leaves:
Crunch. There's you over there,
on the far side of the cherry flood.
There's also a certain uncertainty
as to what I should call you, how
about Bud? How about Luv?
I can't believe you read my diary.
I can't believe you didn't read
out loud your final goodbye.
And hey, while we're in an empty
room, there's something I feel
like saying to you, whoever:
Life is actually not a television
show, and it's been a long time
since anything real
has sent a chill down my spine.
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