I miss you.
Sometimes, I look over and realize I've been talking for the last three hundred kilometres, chattering away like a magpie on the rooftop about all the shiny things that catch my eye, and you haven't said a word. Or, maybe you have and I missed it.
I keep knocking up against the lines that I've drawn, imagining myself borderless to you, only to turn and find and crash into all those keep out signs that I've hand painted and sunk deep in the ground.
I think I left you there on the seat beside me, forgotten, to fade in the sun like a pretty scrap of paper folded into a flower or a swan or a boat. Crumbling at the edges.
Can we just stop and try this again? Or, can I stop and turn again and admit that I don't know where I'm going. Again.
I think I'm lost. All those circles I've been wandering.
I'm sorry.
Here.
