No wings. Pick at things

Isn’t is pathetic, to get so excited,
to wait until time hits six, or whenever
you said. When did she become someone
waiting for anything, picking at thumbs.
And when she writes for you do you read it,
or just say you have to give a confidence hit.
Shit. The odd hour like a scrap of time
thrown with the bones of maybe It’s fine
and never talk about the way she
drinks a little too much wine
or feels suspicious, all different kinds.
Just close your eyes and pretend she didn’t.
Close your eyes and pretend it isn’t.


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