I used to think I could see wind, but I only knew tugging on branches and rolling debris on the ground.
It won't do much if I say that I love you again. It's only a transitive verb, a pronoun, and nothing more.
I watched the holes punched in space where stars used to burn from a bald parking lot at the start of the Chesapeake Bay watershed. You stayed in the car with a migraine, your eyes closed, your heard pulsing under your forehead. We went back to the motel to sleep.
I used to think I could see wind, but I only knew tugging on branches and rolling debris on the ground.
If we go back to some late night at Haverford, I set in motion the start of us spiraling down, out of control.
I watched the blank blackboard sky, the late autumn wind as it blew through your hair. We were in love then. But now that's all changed. We were just kids carried away on a cold front, and we thought we were flying. I thought we were flying. I think we were flying, still.
I used to think I could see wind, but I only knew tugging on branches and rolling debris on the ground.
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