I'm not sorry or tempted to even hit the guilty button,
that made them feel under the weather.
The lies that we tell ourselves-
We stop only so we can go back, retracing our steps-
reminiscing resorts in the radio in our head.
Things that happened, those that thoroughly went through
our hands, their hearts
sometimes we are too good to let go,
we still keep an ounce of goodwill
When decisiveness is what makes us move,
we timidly mingle with it like it were
some stranger we just had a one night stand with. We
bitchily, stubbornly, tend to the guilt, waiting for it to blossom. We
hold on to it until our fingers bruise, clutching even if only a piece
Of it-like some bag lady, keeping things of dubious worth. Don't be fooled
into thinking it's nostalgia, it's not. It's all about of you,
never about them. We keep on doing meandering
things, like these.
We are, after all, masochistic.
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